CHITA: 


A    MEMORY   OF    LAST    ISLAND 


BY 

LAFCADIO  HEARN 
n 


'  But  Nature  whistled  with  all  her  winds, 
Did  as  she  pleased,  and  went  her  way" 

—EMERSON 


NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 
HARPER    &     BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1889,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

Ait  rij/Att  rtitrvtit. 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


CONTENTS. 


- 

THE  LEGEND  OF  L'!LE  DERNIERE   .       i 

PART  II. 
OUT  OF  THE  SEA'S  STRENGTH      .     .     61 

PART  III. 
THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  TIDE    .     .    .129 


242351 


Je  suis  la  vaste  melee, — 
Reptile,  etant  Ponde;   ai&e, 

Etant  le  vent, — 
Force  et  fuite,  haine  et  vie, 
Houle  immense,  poursuivie 

Et  poursuivant. 

— VICTOR  HUGO. 


PART  I. 

The  Legend  of  L  lie  Demure. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  LILE  BERN  I  ERE. 

I. 

TRAVELLING  south  from  New  Or 
leans  to  the  Islands,  you  pass  through 
a  strange  land  into  a  strange  sea,  by  vari 
ous  winding  waterways.  You  can  journey 
to  the  Gulf)  by  lugger  if  you  please ;  but 
the  trip  may  be  made  much  more  rapidly 
and  agreeably  on  some  one  of  those  light, 
narrow  steamers,  built  especially  for  bayou- 
travel,  which  usually  receive  passengers 
at  a  point  not  far  from  the  foot  of  old 
Saint-Louis  Street,  hard  by  the  sugar- 
landing,  where  there  is  ever  a  pushing 
and  flocking  of  steam-craft — all  striving 
for  place  to  rest  their  white  breasts  against 
the  levee,  side  by  side, — like  great  -veary 


4     Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

swans.  But  the  miniature  steamboat  on 
which  you  engage  passage  to  the  Gulf 
never  lingers  long  in  the  Mississippi :  she 
crosses  the  river,  slips  into  some  canal- 
mouth,  labors  along  the  artificial  channel 
awhile,  and  then  leaves  it  with  a  scream 
of  joy,  to  puff  her  free  way  down  many  a 
league  of  heavily  shadowed  bayou.  Per 
haps  thereafter  she  may  bear  you  through 
the  immense  silence  of  drenched  rice- 
fields,  where  the  yellow -green  level  is 
broken  at  long  intervals  by  the  black  sil 
houette  of  some  irrigating  machine ; — but, 
whichever  of  the  five  different  routes  be 
pursued,  you  will  find  yourself  more  than 
once  floating  through  sombre  mazes  of 
swamp -forest, — past  assemblages  of  cy 
presses  all  hoary  with  the  parasitic  til- 
landsia,  and  grotesque  as  gatherings  of 
fetich -gods.  Ever  from  river  or  from 
lakelet  the  steamer  glides  again  into  canal 


«*T 

The  Legend  of  L'lle  Derniere.        5 

or  bayou, — from  bayou  or  canal  once  more 
into  lake  or  bay ;  and  sometimes  the 
swamp-forest  visibly  thins  away  from  these 
shores  into  wastes  of  reedy  morass  where, 
even  of  breathless  nights,  the  quaggy  soil 
trembles  to  a  sound  like  thunder  of  break 
ers  on  a  coast :  the  storm-roar  of  billions 
of  reptile  voices  chanting  in  cadence, — 
rhythmically  surging  in  stupendous  cres 
cendo  and  diminuendo, — a  monstrous  and 
appalling  chorus  of  frogs !  .  .  .  . 

Panting,  screaming,  scraping  JiejM^t-^ 
torn  over  the  sand-bars, — all  day  the  little 
steamer  strives  to  reach  the  grand  blaze 
of  blue  open  water  below  the  marsh-lands ; 
and  perhaps  she  may  be  fortunate  enough 
to  enter  the  Gulf  about  the  time  of  sun 
set.  For  the  sake  of  passengers,  she  trav 
els  by  day  only ;  but  there  are  other  ves 
sels  which  make  the  journey  also  by  night 
--threading  the  bayou -labyrinths  winter 


6     Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

and  summer:  sometimes  steering  by  the 
North  Star, — sometimes  feeling  the  way 
with  poles  in  the  white  season  of  fogs, — 
sometimes,  again,  steering  by  that  Star 
of  Evening  which  in  our  sky  glows  like 
another  moon,  and  drops  over  the  silent 
lakes  as  she  passes  a  quivering  trail  of 
silver  fire. 

Shadows  lengthen;  and  at  last  the 
7>~"  woods  dwindle  away  behind  you  into  thin 
bluish  lines ; — land  and  water  alike  take 
more  luminous  color; — bayous  open  into 
broad  passes ; — lakes  link  themselves  with 
sea-bays  ; — and  the  ocean-wind  bursts 
upon  you, — keen,  cool,  and  full  of  light. 
For  the  first  time  the  vessel  begins  to 
swing, — rocking  to  the  great  living  pulse 
of  the  tides.  And  gazing  from  the  deck 
around  you,  with  no  forest  walls  to  break 
the  view,  it  will  seem  to  you  that  the  low 
land  must  have  once  been  rent  asunder 


The  Legend  of  LSIle  Dernier e.        7 

by  the  sea,  and  strewn  about  the  Gulf  in 
fantastic  tatters.  .  . . 

Sometimes  above  a  waste  of  wind-blown 
prairie-cane  you  see  an  oasis  emerging, — 
a  ridge  or  hillock  heavily  umbraged  with 
the  rounded  foliage  of  evergreen  oaks : — 
a  ch'enilre.  And  from  the  shining  flood 
also  kindred  green  knolls  arise, — pretty 
islets,  each  with  its  beach -girdle  of  daz 
zling  sand  and  shells,  yellow-white, — and 
all  radiant  with  semi-tropical  foliage,  myr 
tle  and  palmetto,  orange  and  magnolia. 
Under  their  emerald  shadows  curious  lit 
tle  villages  of  palmetto  huts  are  drowsing, 
where  dwell  a  swarthy  population  of  Ori 
entals, — Malay  fishermen,  who  speak  the 
Spanish-Creole  of  the  Philippines  as  well 
as  their  own  Tagal,  and  perpetuate  in 
Louisiana  the  Catholic  traditions  of  the 
Indies.  There  are  girls  in  tjiose  unfamil 
iar  villages  worthy  to  inspire  any  stat- 


8     Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

uary, — beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  ruddy 
bronze, — gracile  as  the  palmettoes  that 
sway  above  them —  Further  seaward  you 
may  also  pass  a  Chinese  settlement :  some 
queer  camp  of  wooden  dwellings  cluster 
ing  around  a  vast  platform  that  stands 
above  the  water  upon  a  thousand  piles ; — 
over  the  miniature  wharf  you  can  scarce 
ly  fail  to  observe  a  white  sign-board  paint 
ed  with  crimson  ideographs.  The  great 
platform  is  used  for  drying  fish  in  the 
sun;  and  the  fantastic  characters  of  the 
sign,  literally  translated,  mean :  "  Heap — 
Shrimp— Plenty:'. . .  And  finally  all  the 
land  melts  down  into  desolations  of  sea- 
marsh,  whose  stillness  is  seldom  broken, 
except  by  the  melancholy  cry  of  long- 
legged  birds,  and  in  wild  seasons  by  that 
sound  which  shakes  all  shores  when  the 
weird  Musician  of  the  Sea  touches  the 
bass  keys  of  his  mighty  organ.  . . . 


The  Legend  of  L lie  Dernier e.        9 

II. 

Beyond  the  sea-marshes  a  curious  archi 
pelago  lies.  If  you  travel  by  steamer  to 
the  sea-islands  to-day,  you  are  tolerably 
certain  to  enter  the  Gulf  by  Grande  Pass 
--skirting  Grande  Terre,  the  most  famil 
iar  island  of  all;  not  so  much  because  of 
its  proximity  as  because  of  its  great  crum 
bling  fort  and  its  graceful  pharos :  the  sta 
tionary  White  -  Light  of  Barataria.  Oth 
erwise  the  place  is  bleakly  uninteresting : 
a  wilderness  of  wind-swept  grasses  and 
sinewy  weeds  waving  away  from  a  thin 
beach  ever  speckled  with  drift  and  decay 
ing  things, — worm -riddled  timbers,  dead 
porpoises.  Eastward  the  russet  level  is 
broken  by  the  columnar  silhouette  of  the 
light-house,  and  again,  beyond  it,  by  some 
puny  scrub  timber,  above  which  rises  the 
angular  ruddy  mass  of  the  old  brick  fort, 


io  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

whose  ditches  swarm  with  crabs,  and 
whose  sluiceways  are  half  choked  by  ob 
solete  cannon-shot,  now  thickly  covered 
with  incrustation  of  oyster  shells.  .  .  . 
Around  all  the  gray  circling  of  a  shark- 
haunted  sea.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  of  autumn  evenings  there, 
when  the  hollow  of  heaven  flames  like 
the  interior  of  a  chalice,  and  waves  and 
clouds  are  flying  in  one  wild  rout  of 
broken  gold, — you  may  see  the  tawny 
grasses  all  covered  with  something  like 
husks, — wheat-colored  husks, — large,  flat, 
and  disposed  evenly  along  the  lee -side 
of  each  swaying  stalk,  so  as  to  present 
only  their  edges  to  the  wind.  nKt,  if  you 
approach,  those  pale  husks  all  break  open 
to  display  strange  splendors  of  scarlet 
and  seal-brown,  with  arabesque  mottlings 
in  white  and  black :  they  change  into 
wondrous  living  blossoms,  which  detach 


The  Legend  of  L'fle  Dernier e.      1 1 

themselves  before  your  eyes  and  rise  in 
air,  and  flutter  away  by  thousands  to  set 
tle  down  farther  off,  and  turn  into  wheat- 
colored  husks  once  more  ...  a  whirlingij 
flower-drift  of  sleepy  butterflies  !  '  1 

Southwest,  across  the  pass,  gleams  beau 
tiful  Grande  Isle :  primitively  a  wilder 
ness  of  palmetto  (latanier) ; — then  drained, 
diked,  and  cultivated  by  Spanish  sugar- 
planters  ;  and  now  familiar  chiefly  as  a 
bathing-resort.  Since  the  war  the  ocean 
reclaimed  its  own; — the  cane-fields  have 
degenerated  into  sandy  plains,  over  which 
tramways  wind  to  the  smooth  beach ; — the 
plantation-residences  have  been  converted 
into  rustic  hotels,  and  the  negro-quarters 
remodelled  into  villages  of  cozy  cottages 
for  the  reception  of  guests.  But  with  its 
imposing  groves  of  oak,  its  golden  wealth 
of  orange-trees,  its  odorous  lanes  of  ole- 


1 2  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

ander,  its  broad  grazing-meadows  yellow- 
starred  with  wild  camomile,  Grande  Isle 
remains  the  prettiest  island  of  the  Gulf ; 
and  its  loveliness  is  exceptional.  For  the 
bleakness  of  Grand  Terre  is  reiterated 
by  most  of  the  other  islands, — Caillou, 
Cassetete,  Calumet,  Wine  Island,  the  twin 
Timbaliers,  Gull  Island,  and  the  many 
islets  haunted  by  the  gray  pelican, — all 
of  which  are  little  more  than  sand-bars 
covered  with  wiry  grasses,  prairie -cane, 
and  scrub  -  timber.  Last  Island  (L'lle 
Derniere), — well  worthy  a  long  visit  in 
other  years,  in  spite  of  its  remoteness, 
is  now  a  ghastly  desolation  twenty -five 
miles  long.  Lying  nearly  forty  miles 
west  of  Grande  Isle,  it  was  nevertheless 
far  more  populated  a  generation  ago :  it 
was  not  only  the  most  celebrated  island 
of  the  group,  but  also  the  most  fashion 
able  watering-place  of  the  aristocratic 


The  Legend  of  L?  lie  Dernier e.      13 

South ; — to-day  it  is  visited  by  fishermen 
only,  at  long  intervals.  Its  admirable 
beach  in  many  respects  resembled  that  of 
Grande  Isle  to-day;  the  accommodations 
also  were  much  similar,  although  finer :  a 
charming  village  of  cottages  facing  the 
Gulf  near  the  western  end.  The  hotel  it 
self  was  a  massive  two-story  construction 
of  timber,  containing  many  apartments, 
together  with  a  large  dining-room  and 
dancing-hall.  In  rear  of  the  hotel  was 
a  bayou,  where  passengers  landed — "  Vil 
lage  Bayou  "  it  is  still  called  by  seamen  ; — 
but  the  deep  channel  which  now  cuts  the 
island  in  two  a  little  eastwardly  did  not 
exist  while  the  village  remained.  The  sea 
tore  it  out  in  one  night — the  same  night 
when  trees,  fields,  dwellings,  all  vanished 
into  the  Gulf,  leaving  no  vestige  of  former 
human  habitation  except  a  few  of  those 
strong  brick  props  and  foundations  upon 


14  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

which  the  frame  houses  and  cisterns  had 
been  raised.  One  living  creature  was 
found  there  after  the  cataclysm — a  cow! 
But  how  that  solitary  cow  survived  the 
fury  of  a  storm-flood  that  actually  rent 
the  island  in  twain  has  ever  remained  a 

mystery.  .  .  . 

III. 

On  the  Gulf  side  of  these  islands  mou 
may  observe  that  the  trees — when  (acre 
are  any  trees  —  all  bend  away  frornVhe 
sea ;  and,  even  of  bright,  hot  days  when 
the  wind  sleeps,  there  is  something  gro 
tesquely  pathetic  in  their  look  of  ago- 
terror.  A  group  of  oaks  at  Grande 
Isle  I  remember  as  especially  suggestive : 
five  stooping  silhouettes  in  line  against 
the  horizon,  like  fleeing  women  with 
streaming  garments  and  wind-blown  hair, 
V— ^- bowing  grievously  and  thrusting  out 

\     arms  desperately  northward  as  to  save 
v»^.~. 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      15 


themselves  from  falling.  /  And  they  are 
being  pursued  indeed  ^for  the  sea  is 
devouring  the  land.  Many  and  many  a 
mile  of  ground  has  yielded  to  the  tireless 
charging  of  Ocean's  cavalry :  far  out  you 

f — - — —     ' 

can  see,  through  a  good  glass,  the  por 
poises  at  play  where  of  old  the  sugar-cane 
shook  out  its  million  bannerets ;  and 
shark-fins  now  seam  deep  water  above  a 
site  where  pigeons  used  to  coo.  Men 
build  dikes  ;  but  the  besieging  tides  bring 
up  their  battering-rams  —  whole  forests 
of  drift — huge  trunks  of  water-oak  and 
weighty  cypress.  Forever  the  yellow  Mis 
sissippi  strives  to  build;  forever  the  sea 

i 

struggles  to  destroy ; — and  amid  their 
eternal  strife  the  islands  and  the  prom 
ontories  change  shape,  more  slowly,  but 
not  less  fantastically,  than  the  clouds  of 
heaven. 

And  worthy  of  study  are  those  wan 


16  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

battle-grounds  where  the  woods  made 
their  last  brave  stand  against  the  irresisti 
ble  invasion, — usually  at  some  long  point 
of  sea-marsh,  widely  fringed  with  billow 
ing  sand.  Just  where  the  waves  curl 
beyond  such  a  point  you  may  discern  a 
multitude  of  blackened,  snaggy  shapes 
protruding  above  the  water, — some  high 
enough  to  resemble  ruined  chimneys,  oth 
ers  bearing  a  startling  likeness  to  enor 
mous  skeleton-feet  and  skeleton-hands, — 
with  crustaceous  white  growths  clinging 
to  them  here  and  there  like  remnants  of 
integument.  These  are  bodies  and  limbs 
of  drowned  oaks, — so  long  drowned  that 
the  shell -scurf  is  inch -thick  upon  parts 
of_thern.v  Farther  in  upon  the  beach 
immense  trunks  lie  overthrown.  Some 
look  like  vast  broken  columns;  some  sug 
gest  colossal  torsos  imbedded,  and  seem 
to  reach  out  mutilated  stumps  in  despair 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Derniere.      1 7 

I 
from  their  deepening  graves  ;-|-and  beside 

•ii  "" 

these  are  others  which  have  kept  their 
feet  with  astounding  obstinacy,  although 
the  barbarian  tides  have  been  charging 
them  for  twenty  years,  and  gradually  torn 
away  the  soil  above  and  beneath  their 
roots.  The  sand  around, — soft  beneath 
and  thinly  crusted  upon  the  surface, — is 
everywhere  pierced  with  holes  made  by 
a  beautifully  mottled  and  semi -diapha 
nous  crab,  with  hairy  legs,  big  staring 
eyes,  and  milk-white  claws ; — while  in  the 
green  sedges  beyond  there  is  a  perpetual 
rustling,  as  of  some  strong  wind  beating 
among  reeds :  a  marvellous  creeping  of 
"  fiddlers,"  which  the  inexperienced  vis 
itor  might  at  first  mistake  for  so  many 
peculiar  beetles,  as  they  run  about  side 
ways,  each  with  his  huge  single  claw 
folded  upon  his  body  like  a  wing-case. 
Year  by  year  that  rustling  strip  of  green 


1 8  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

land  grows  narrower;  the  sand  spreads 
and  sinks,  shuddering  and  wrinkling  like 
a  living  brown  skin ;  and  the  last  stand 
ing  corpses  of  the  oaks,  ever  clinging  with 
naked,  dead  feet  to  the  sliding  beach,  lean 
more  and  more  out  of  the  perpendicular. 
As  the  sands  subside,  the  stumps  appear  to 
creep ;  their  intertwisted  masses  of  snak- 
ish  roots  seem  to  crawl,  to  writhe, — like 
the  reaching  arms  of  cephalopods.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Grande  Terre  is  going:  the  sea 
mines  her  fort,  and  will  before  many  years 
carry  the  ramparts  by  storm.  Grande 
Isle  is  going, — slowly  but  surely :  the 
Gulf  has  eaten  three  miles  into  her  mead- 
owed  land.  Last  Island  has  gone  !  How 
it  went  I  first  heard  from  the  lips  of  a 
veteran  pilot,  while  we  sat  one  evening 
together  on  the  trunk  of  a  drifted  cypress 
which  some  high  tide  had  pressed  deeply 
into  the  Grande  Isle  beach.  The  day  had 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      19 

been  tropically  warm ;  we  had  sought  the 
shore  for  a  breath  of  living  air.  Sunset 
came,  and  with  it  the  ponderous  heat 
lifted, — a  sudden  breeze  blew, — lightnings 
flickered  in  the  darkening  horizon, — wind 
and  water  began  to  strive  together, — and 
soon  all  the  low  coast  boomed.  Then 
my  companion  began  his  story ;  perhaps 
the  coming  of  the  storm  inspired  him  to 
speak !  And  as  I  listened  to  him,  listen 
ing  also  to  the  clamoring  of  the  coast, 
there  flashed  back  to  me  recollection  of  a 
singular  Breton  fancy :  that  the  Voice  of 
the  Sea  is  never  one  voice,  but  a  tumult 
of  many  voices — voices  of  drowned  men, 
— the  muttering  of  multitudinous  dead, — 
the  moaning  of  innumerable  ghosts,  all 
rising,  to  rage  against  the  living,  at  the 
great  Witch-call  of  storms. . . . 


20  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

IV. 

The  charm  of  a  single  summer  day  on 
these  island  shores  is  something  impossi 
ble  to  express,  never  to  be  forgotten.  Rare 
ly,  in  the  paler  zones,  do  earth  and  heaven 
take  such  luminosity:  those  will  best  un 
derstand  me  who  have  seen  the  splendor 
of  a  West  Indian  sky.  And  yet  there  is 
a  tenderness  of  tint,  a  caress  of  color,  in 
these  Gulf-days  which  is  not  of  the  An 
tilles, — a  spirituality,  as  of  eternal  tropical 
spring.  It  must  have  been  to  even  such 
a  sky  that  Xenophanes  lifted  up  his  eyes 
of  old  when  he  vowed  the  Infinite  Blue 
was  God ; — it  was  indeed  under  such  a 
sky  that  De  Soto  named  the  vastest  and 
grandest  of  Southern  havens  Espiritu 
Santo, — the  Bay  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
There  is  a  something  unutterable  in  this 
bright  Gulf-air  that  compels  awe, — some- 


The  Legend  of  L'fle  Dernier e.      2 1 

thing  vital,  something  holy,  something 
pantheistic :  and  reverentially  the  mind 
asks  itself  if  what  the  eye  beholds  is  not 
the  IT^eu/xa  indeed,  the  Infinite  Breath, 
the  Divine  Ghost,  the  great  Blue  Soul  of 
the  Unknown.  All,  all  is  blue  in  the 
calm, — save  the  low  land  under  your  feet, 
which  you  almost  forget,  since  it  seems 
only  as  a  tiny  green  flake  afloat  in  the 
liquid  eternity  of  day.  Then  slowly,  ca-  1 
ressingly,  irresistibly,  the  witchery  of  the 
Infinite  grows  upon  you :  out  of  Time 
and  Space  you  begin  to  dream  with  open 
eyes, — to  drift  into  delicious  oblivion  of 
facts, — to  forget  the  past,  the  present,  the! 
substantial, — to  comprehend  nothing  butj 

the  existence  of  that  infinite  Blue  Ghost  • 

1 1 

as  something  into  which  you  would  wish' ! 
to  melt  utterly  away  forever.  .  .  . 

And  this  day-magic  of  azure  endures 
sometimes  for  months  together.     Cloud- 


22   Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

lessly  the  dawn  reddens  up  through  a 
violet  east:  there  is  no  speck  upon  the 
blossoming  of  its  Mystical  Rose, — unless 
it  be  the  silhouette  of  some  passing  gull, 
whirling  his  sickle-wings  against  the  crim 
soning.  Ever,  as  the  sun  floats  higher, 
flood  shifts  its  color.  Sometimes 
smooth  and  gray,  yet  flickering  with  the 
morning  gold,  it  is  the  vision  of  John, — 
the  apocalyptic  Sea  of  Glass  mixed  with 
fire; — again,  with  the  growing  breeze,  it 

i  takes  that  incredible  purple  tint  familiar 
mostly  to  painters  of  West  Indian  scenery; 
— once  more,  under  the  blaze  of  noon,  it 
changes  to  a  waste  of   broken  emerald. 
With  evening,  the  horizon  assumes  tints 
i  of  inexpressible  sweetness, — pearl  -  lights, 
/  opaline  colors  of  milk  and  fire ;  and  in  the 
'   west  are  topaz  -  glowings   and  wondrous 
flushings  as  of  nacre.      Then,  if  the  sea 
\   sleeps,  it  dreams   of  all  these, — faintly, 


The  Legend  of  Lite  Dernier e.      23 

weirdly,  —  shadowing  them  even  to  the 
verge  of  heaven. 

Beautiful,  too,  are  those  white  phantas 
magoria  which,  at  the  approach  of  equi 
noctial  days,  mark  the  coming  of  the 
winds.  Over  the  rim  of  the  sea  a  bright 
cloud  gently  pushes  up  its  head.  It  rises; 
and  others  rise  with  it,  to  right  and  left— 
slowly  at  first ;  then  more  swiftly.  All 
are  brilliantly  white  and  flocculent,  like 
loose  new  cotton.  Gradually  they  mount 
in  enormous  line  high  above  the  Gulf, 
rolling  and  wreathing  into  an  arch  that 
expands  and  advances,  —  bending  from 
horizon  to  horizon.  A  clear,  cold  breath 
accompanies  its  coming.  Reaching  the 
zenith,  it  seems  there  to  hang  poised 
awhile, — a  ghostly  bridge  arching  the  em 
pyrean, — upreaching  its  measureless  span 
from  either  underside  of  the  world.  Then 
the  colossal  phantom  begins  to  turn,  as 


24  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

on  a  pivot  of  air, — always  preserving  its 
curvilinear  symmetry,  but  moving  its  un 
seen  ends  beyond  and  below  the  sky-cir 
cle.  And  at  last  it  floats  away  unbroken 
beyond  the  blue  sweep  of  the  world,  with 
a  wind  following  after.  Day  after  day, 
almost  at  the  same  hour,  the  white  arc 
rises,  wheels,  and  passes.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Never  a  glimpse  of  rock  on  these 
low  shores  ; — only  long  sloping  beaches 
and  bars  of  smooth  tawny  sand.  Sand 
and  sea  teem  with  vitality ; — over  all  the 
dunes  there  is  a  constant  susurration,  a 
blattering  and  swarming  of  Crustacea; — 
through  all  the  sea  there  is  a  ceaseless 
play  of  silver  lightning, — flashing  of  myr 
iad  fish.  Sometimes  the  shallows  are 
thickened  with  minute,  transparent,  crab- 
like  organisms, — all  colorless  as  gelatine. 
There  are  days  also  when  countless  me 
dusae  drift  in — beautiful  veined  creatures 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      25 

that  throb  like  hearts,  with  perpetual  sys 
tole  and  diastole  of  their  diaphanous  en 
velops:  some,  of  translucent  azure  or  rose, 
seem  in  the  flood  the  shadows  or  ghosts  of 
huge  campanulate  flowers  ; — others  have 
the  semblance  of  strange  living  vegeta 
bles, — great  milky  tubers,  just  beginning 
to  sprout.  But  woe  to  the  human  skin 
grazed  by  those  shadowy  sproutings  and 
spectral  stamens ! — the  touch  of  glowing 
iron  is  not  more  painful.  .  .  .  Within  an 
hour  or  two  after  their  appearance  all 
these  tremulous  jellies  vanish  mysterious 
ly  as  they  came. 

Perhaps,  if  a  bold  swimmer,  you  may 
venture  out  alone  a  long  way  —  once! 
Not  twice ! — even  in  company.  As  the 
water  deepens  beneath  you,  and  you  feel 
those  ascending  wave-currents  of  coldness 
arising  which  bespeak  profundity,  you  will 
also  begin  to  feel  innumerable  touches,  as 


26  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

of  groping  fingers — touches  of  the  bodies 
of  fish,  innumerable  fish,  fleeing  towards 
shore.  The  farther  you  advance,  the 
more  thickly  you  will  feel  them  come ; 
and  above  you  and  around  you,  to  right 
and  left,  others  will  leap  and  fall  so  swift 
ly  as  to  daze  the  sight,  like  intercrossing 
fountain-jets  of  fluid  silver.  The  gulls 
fly  lower  about  you,  circling  with  sinister 
squeaking  cries ; — perhaps  for  an  instant 
your  feet  touch  in  the  deep  something 
heavy,  swift,  lithe,  that  rushes  past  with  a 
swirling  shock.  Then  the  fear  of  the 
Abyss,  the  vast  and  voiceless  Nightmare 
of  the  Sea,  will  come  upon  you ;  the  si 
lent  panic  of  all  those  opaline  millions 
that  flee  glimmering  by  will  enter  into 
you  also.  .  .  . 

From  what  do  they  flee  thus  perpetu 
ally  ?  Is  it  from  the  giant  sawfish  or  the 
ravening  shark  ? — from  the  herds  of  the 


s* 

The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      27 

porpoises,  or  from  the  grande-'ecaille, — 
that  splendid  monster  whom  no  net  may 
hold, — all  helmed  and  armored  in  argent 
plate-mail  ? — or  from  the  hideous  devil 
fish  of  the  Gulf, — gigantic,  flat-bodied, 
black,  with  immense  side-fins  ever  out 
spread  like  the  pinions  of  a  bat, — the  ter 
ror  of  luggermen,  the  uprooter  of  anch 
ors  ?  From  all  these,  perhaps,  and  from 
other  monsters  likewise — goblin  shapes 
evolved  by  Nature  as  destroyers,  as  equi 
librists,  as  counterchecks  to  that  prodig 
ious  fecundity,  which,  unhindered,  would 
thicken  the  deep  into  one  measureless 
and  waveless  ferment  of  being.  .  .  .  But 
when  there  are  many  bathers  these  perils 
are  forgotten, — numbers  give  courage, — 
one  can  abandon  one's  self,  without  fear 
of  the  invisible,  to  the  long,  quivering, 
electrical  caresses  of  the  sea. . 


28  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

V. 

Thirty  years  ago,  Last  Island  lay  steep 
ed  in  the  enormous  light  of  even  such 
magical  days.  July  was  dying;  —  for 
weeks  no  fleck  of  cloud  had  broken  the 
heaven's  blue  dream  of  eternity;  winds 
held  their  breath ;  slow  wavelets  caressed 
the  bland  brown  beach  with  a  sound  as 
of  kisses  and  whispers.  To  one  who 
found  himself  alone,  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  village  and  beyond  the  hearing  of  its 
voices, — the  vast  silence,  the  vast  light, 
seemed  full  of  weirdness.  And  these 
hushes,  these  transparencies,  do  not  al 
ways  inspire  a  causeless  apprehension : 
they  are  omens  sometimes — omens  of  com 
ing  tempest.  Nature, — incomprehensible 
Sphinx ! — before  her  -mightiest  bursts  of 
rage,  ever  puts  forth  her  divinest  witchery, 
makes  more  manifest  her  awful  beauty 


The  Legend  of  Ulle  Dernier  e.      29 

But  in  that  forgotten  summer  the  witch 
ery  lasted  many  long  days,  —  (Jays  born  in 
rose-light,  burie^L-ilL  gold.  It  was  the 
height  of  the  season.  The  long  myrtle- 
shadowed  village  was  thronged  with  its 
summer  population  ;  —  the  big  hotel  could 
hardly  accommodate  all  its  guests;  —  the 
bathing  -houses  were  too  few  for  the 
crowds  who  flocked  to  the  water  morn 
ing  and  evening.  There  were  diversions 
for  all,  —  hunting  and  fishing  parties, 
yachting  excursions,  rides,  music,  games, 
promenades.  Carriage  wheels  whirled 
flickering  along  the  beach,  seaming  its 
smoothness  noiselessly,  as  if  muffled. 
Love  wrqte  its 


.  .  .Then  one  great  noon,  when  the  blue 
abyss  of  day  seemed  to  yawn  over  the 
world  more  deeply  than  ever  before,  a 
sudden  change  touched  the  quicksilver 
smoothness  of  the  waters  —  the  swaying 


30  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

shadow  of  a  vast  motion.  First  the  whole 
sea-circle  appeared  to  rise  up  bodily  at  the 
sky ;  the  horizon-curve  lifted  to  a  straight 
line;  the  line  darkened  and  approached, 
— a  monstrous  wrinkle,  an  immeasurable 
fold  of  green  water,  moving  swift  as  a 
cloud-shadow  pursued  by  sunlight.  But 
it  had  looked  formidable  only  by  startling 
contrast  with  the  previous  placidity  of  the 
open  :  it  was  scarcely  two  feet  high ; — it 
curled  slowly  as  it  neared  the  beach,  and 
combed  itself  out  in  sheets  of  woolly  foam 
with  a  low,  rich  roll  of  whispered  thunder. 
Swift  in  pursuit  another  followed — a  third 
— a  feebler  fourth ;  then  the  sea  only 
swayed  a  little,  and  stilled  again.  Min 
utes  passed,  and  the  immeasurable  heav 
ing  recommenced — one,  two,  fhree,  four 
.  .  .  seven  long  swells  this  time; — and 
the  Gulf  smoothed  itself  once  more.  Ir 
regularly  the  phenomenon  continued  to 


The  Legend  of  L?Ile  Derniere.      3 1 

repeat  itself,  each  time  with  heavier  bil 
lowing  and  briefer  intervals  of  quiet — un 
til  at  last  the  whole  sea  grew  restless  and 
shifted  color  and  flickered  green ; — the 
swells  became  shorter  and  changed  form. 
Then  from  horizon  to  shore  ran  one 
uninterrupted  heaving — one  vast  green 
swarming  of  snaky  shapes,  rolling  in  to 
hiss  and  flatten  upon  the  sand.  Yet  no 
single  cirrus-speck  revealed  itself  through 
all  the  violet  heights :  there  was  no  wind  1 
— you  might  have  fancied  the  sea  had 
been  upheaved  from  beneath.  .  .  . 

And  indeed  the  fancy  of  a  seismic  ori 
gin  for  a  windless  surge  would  not  appear 
in  these  latitudes  to  be  utterly  without 
foundation.  On  the  fairest  days  a  south 
east  breeze  may  bear  you  an  odor  singu 
lar  enough  to  startle  you  from  sleep, — a 
strong,  sharp  smell  as  of  fish-oil ;  and  gaz 
ing  at  the  sea  you  might  be  still  more 


32   Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

startled  at  the  sudden  apparition  of  great 
oleaginous  patches  spreading  over  the 
water,  sheeting  over  the  swells.  That  is, 
if  you  had  never  heard  of  the  mysterious 
submarine  oil-wells,  the  volcanic  fountains, 
unexplored,  that  well  up  with  the  eternal 
pulsing  of  the  Gulf-Stream. .  .  . 

But  the  pleasure-seekers  of  Last  Island 
knew  there  must  have  been  a  "  great 
blow  "  somewhere  that  day.  Still  the  sea 
swelled ;  and  a  splendid  surf  made  the 
evening  bath  delightful.  Then,  just  at 
sundown,  a  beautiful  cloud-bridge  grew 
up  and  arched  the  sky  with  a  single  span 
of  cottony  pink  vapor,  that  changed  and 
deepened  color  with  the  dying  of  the  iri 
descent  day.  And  the  cloud -bridge  ap 
proached,  stretched,  strained,  and  swung 
round  at  last  to  make  way  for  the  coming 
of  the  gale, — even  as  the  light  bridges  that 
traverse  the  dreamy  Teche  swing  open 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Derniere.      33 

when  luggermen  sound  through  their 
conch-shells  the  long,  bellowing  signal  of 
approach. 

Then  the  wind  began  to  blow,  with  the 
passing  of  July.  It  blew  from  the  north 
east,  clear,  cool.  It  blew  in  enormous 
sighs,  dying  away  at  regular  intervals,  as 
if  pausing  to  draw  breath.  All  night  it 
blew ;  and  in  each  pause  could  be  heard 
the  answering  moan  of  the  rising  surf, — 
as  if  the  rhythm  of  the  sea  moulded  itself 
after  the  rhythm  of  the  air, — as  if  the  wav 
ing  of  the  water  responded  precisely  to 
the  waving  of  the  wind, — a  billow  for  ev 
ery  puff,  a  surge  for  every  sigh. 

The  August  morning  broke  in  a  bright 
sky ; — the  breeze  still  came  cool  and  clear 
from  the  northeast.  The  waves  were  run 
ning  now  at  a  sharp  angle  to  the  shore : 
they  began  to  carry  fleeces,  an  innumer 
able  flock  of  vague  green  shapes,  wind- 


34  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

driven  to  be  despoiled  of  their  ghostly 
wool.  Far  as  the  eye  could  follow  the 
line  of  the  beach,  all  the  slope  was  white 
with  the  great  shearing  of  them.  Clouds 
came,  flew  as  in  a  panic  against  the  face 
of  the  sun,  and  passed.  All  that  day  and 
through  the  night  and  into  the  morning 
again  the  breeze  continued  from  the  north 
east,  blowing  like  an  equinoctial  eale.  .  .  . 
Then  day  by  day  the  vast  breath  fresh 
ened  steadily,  and  the  waters  heightened. 
A  week  later  sea/bathing  had  become 
perilous :  colossal  breakers  were  herding 
in,  like  moving  leviathan-backs,  twice  the 
height  of  a  man.  Still  the  gale  grew,  and 
the  billowing  waxed  mightier,  and  faster 
and  faster  overhead  flew  the  tatters  of 
torn  cloud.  The  gray  morning  of  the  gth 
wanly  lighted  a  surf  that  appalled  the  best 
swimmers :  the  sea  was  one  wild  agony 
of  foam,  the  gale  was  rending  off  the  heads 


The  Legend  of  Llle  Derniere.      35 

of  the  waves  and  veiling  the  horizon  with 
a  fog  of  salt  spray.  Shadowless  and  gray 
the  day  remained ;  there  were  mad  bursts 
of  lashing  rain.  Evening  brought  with  it 
a  sinister  apparition,  looming  through  a 
cloud-rent  in  the  west — a  scarlet  sun  in 
a  green  sky.  His  sanguine  disk,  enor 
mously  magnified,  seemed  barred  like  the 
body  of  a  belted  planet.  A  moment,  and 
the  crimson  spectre  vanished;  and  the 
moonless  night  came. 

Then  the  Wind  grew  weird.  It  ceased 
being  a  breath ;  it  became  a  Voice  moan 
ing  across  the  world, — hooting, — uttering 
nightmare  sounds,  —  Whoo  ! —  whoo  !  - 
whoo! — and  with  each  stupendous  owl- 
cry  the  mooing  of  the  waters  seemed  to 
deepen,  more  and  •  more  abysmally, 
through  all  the  hours  of  darkness. 
From  the  northwest  the  breakers  of  the 
bay  began  to  roll  high  over  the  sandy 


36  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

slope,  into  the  salines ; — the  village  bayou 
broadened  to  a  bellowing  flood.  ...  So 
the  tumult  swelled  and  the  turmoil 
heightened  until  morning, — a  morning  of 
gray  gloom  and  whistling  rain.  Rain  of 
bursting  clouds  and  rain  of  wind-blown 
brine  from  the  great  spuming  agony  of 
the  sea. 

The  steamer  Star  was  due  from  St. 
Mary's  that  fearful  morning.  Could  she 
come?  No  one  really  believed  it, — no 
one.  And  nevertheless  men  struggled 
to  the  roaring  beach  to  look  for  her,  be 
cause  hope  is  stronger  than  reason.  . .  . 

Even  to-day,  in  these  Creole  islands, 
the  advent  of  the  steamer  is  the  great 
event  of  the  week.  There  are  no  tele 
graph  lines,  no  telephones:  the  mail- 
packet  is  the  only  trustworthy  medium 
of  communication  with  the  outer  world, 
bringing  friends,  news,  letters.  The 


M 

The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      37 

magic  of  steam  has  placed  New  Orleans 
nearer  to  New  York  than  to  the  Timbal- 
iers,  nearer  to  Washington  than  to  Wine 
Island,  nearer  to  Chicago  than  to  Bara- 
taria  Bay.  And  even  during  the  deepest 
sleep  of  waves  and  winds  there  will  come 
betimes  to  sojourners  in  this  unfamiliar 
archipelago  a  feeling  of  lonesomeness 
that  is  a  fear,  a  feeling  of  isolation  from 
the  world  of  men, — totally  unlike  that 
sense  of  solitude  which  haunts  one  in 
the  silence  of  mountain-heights,  or  amid 
the  eternal  tumult  of  lofty  granitic  coasts: 
a  sense  of  helpless  insecurity.  The  land 
seems  but  an  undulation  of  the  sea-bed : 
its  highest  ridges  do  not  rise  more  than 
the  height  of  a  man  above  the  salines  on 
either  side ; — the  salines  themselves  lie 
almost  level  with  the  level  of  the  flood- 
tides ; — the  tides  are  variable,  treacher 
ous,  mysterious.  But  when  all  around 


38  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

and  above  these  ever-changing  shores  the 
twin  vastnesses  of  heaven  and  sea  begin 
to  utter  the  tremendous  revelation  of 
themselves  as  infinite  forces  in  conten 
tion,  then  indeed  this  sense  of  separation 
from  humanity  appals.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was 
such  a  feeling  which  forced  men,  on  the 
tenth  day  of  August,  eighteen  hundred 
and  fifty-six,  to  hope  against  hope  for  the 
coming  of  the  Star,  and  to  strain  their 
eyes  towards  far-off  Terrebonne.  "  It  was 
a  wind  you  could  lie  down  on,"  said  my 
friend  the  pilot. 

..."  Great  God  !"  shrieked  a  voice 
above  the  shouting  of  the  storm, — "she 
is  coming  /" ...  It  was  true.  Down  the 
Atchafalaya,  and  thence  through  strange 
mazes  of  bayou,  lakelet,  and  pass,  by  a 
rear  route  familiar  only  to  the  best  of 
pilots,  the  frail  river-craft  had  toiled  into 
Caillou  Bay,  running  close  to  the  main 


XI 

The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      39 

shore ; — and  now  she  was  heading  right 
for  the  island,  with  the  wind  aft,  over  the 
monstrous  sea.  On  she  came,  swaying, 
rocking,  plunging, — with  a  great  white 
ness  wrapping  her  about  like  a  cloud, 
and  moving  with  her  moving, — a  tem 
pest-whirl  of  spray ; — ghost-white  and  like 
a  ghost  she  came,  for  her  smoke-stacks 
exhaled  no  visible  smoke — the  wind  de 
voured  it!  The  excitement  on  shore 
became  wild; — men  shouted  themselves 
hoarse;  women  laughed  and  cried.  Ev 
ery  telescope  and  opera-glass  was  directed 
upon  the  coming  apparition ;  all  wondered 
how  the  pilot  kept  his  feet ;  all  marvelled 
at  the  madness  of  the  captain. 

But  Captain  Abraham  Smith  was  not 
mad.  A  veteran  American  sailor,  he  had 
learned  to  know  the  great  Gulf  as  scholars 
know  deep  books  by  heart :  he  knew  the 
birthplace  of  its  tempests,  the  mystery  of 


4O  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

its  tides,  the  omens  of  its  hurricanes. 
While  lying  at  Brashear  City  he  felt  the 
storm  had  not  yet  reached  its  highest, 
vaguely  foresaw  a  mighty  peril,  and  re 
solved  to  wait  no  longer  for  a  lull. 
"  Boys,"  he  said,  "  we've  got  to  take  her 
out  in  spite  of  Hell!"  And  they  "took 
her  out."  Through  all  the  peril,  his  men 
stayed  by  him  and  obeyed  him.  By  mid- 
morning  the  wind  had  deepened  to  a  roar, 
— lowering  sometimes  to  a  rumble,  some 
times  bursting  upon  the  ears  like  a  meas 
ureless  and  deafening  crash.  Then  the 
captain  knew  the  Star  was  running  a  race 
with  Death.  "  She'll  win  it,"  he  mutter 
ed  ;— "  she'll  stand  it Perhaps  they'll 

have  need  of  me  to-night." 

She  won !  With  a  sonorous  steam- 
chant  of  triumph  the  brave  little  vessel 
rode  at  last  into  the  bayou,  and  anchored 
hard  by  her  accustomed  resting-place,  in 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Derniere.      41 

full  view  of  the  hotel,  though  not  near 
enough  to  shore  to  lower  her  gang-plank. 
.  .  .  But  she  had  sung  her  swan-song. 
Gathering  in  from  the  northeast,  the 
waters  of  the  bay  were  already  marbling 
over  the  salines  and  half  across  the  isl 
and  ;  and  still  the  wind  increased  its  par 
oxysmal  power. 

Cottages  began  to  rock.  Some  slid 
away  from  the  solid  props  upon  which 
they  rested.  A  chimney  tumbled.  Shut 
ters  were  wrenched  off;  verandas  demol 
ished.  Light  roofs  lifted,  dropped  again, 
and  flapped  into  ruin.  Trees  bent  their 
heads  to  the  earth.  And  still  the  storm 
grew  louder  and  blacker  with  every  pass 
ing  hour. 

The  Star  rose  with  the  rising  of  the 
waters,  dragging  her  anchor.  Two  more 
anchors  were  put  out,  and  still  she  dragged 
— dragged  in  with  the  flood, — twisting, 


42   Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

shuddering,  careening  in  her  agony. 
Evening  fell ;  the  sand  began  to  move 
with  the  wind,  stinging  faces  like  a  con 
tinuous  fire  of  fine  shot ;  and  frenzied 
blasts  came  to  buffet  the  steamer  for 
ward,  sideward.  Then  one  of  her  hog- 
chains  parted  with  a  clang  like  the  boom 
of  a  big  bell.  Then  another !  .  .  .  Then 
the  captain  bade  his  men  to  cut  away 
all  her  upper  works,  clean  to  the  deck. 
Overboard  into  the  seething  went  her 
stacks,  her  pilot-house,  her  cabins, — and 
whirled  away.  And  the  naked  hull  of 
the  Star,  still  dragging  her  three  anchors, 
labored  on  through  the  darkness,  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  immense  silhouette  of 
the  hotel,  whose  hundred  windows  were 
now  all  aflame.  The  vast  timber  build 
ing  seemed  to  defy  the  storm. '  The  wind, 
roaring  round  its  broad  verandas, — hiss 
ing  through  every  crevice  with  the  sound 


^ 

The  Legend  of  L?  He  Dernier e.     43 

and  force  of  steam, — appeared  to  waste  its 
rage.  And  in  the  half-lull  between  two 
terrible  gusts  there  came  to  the  captain's 
ears  a  sound  that  seemed  strange  in  that 
night  of  multitudinous  terrors  ...  a  sound 
of  music ! 

VI. 

.  .  .  Almost  every  evening  throughout 
the  season  there  had  been  dancing  in  the 
great  hall ; — there  was  dancing  that  night 
also.  The  population  of  the  hotel  had 
been  augmented  by  the  advent  of  families 
from  other  parts  of  the  island,  who  found 
their  summer  cottages  insecure  places  of 
shelter:  there  were  nearly  four  hundred 
guests  assembled.  Perhaps  it  was  for 
this  reason  that  the  entertainment  had 
been  prepared  upon  a  grander  plan  than 
usual,  that  it  assumed  the  form  of  a  fash 
ionable  ball.  And  all  those  pleasure- 


44  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

seekers,  —  representing  the  wealth  and 
beauty  of  the  Creole  parishes, — whether 
from  Ascension  or  Assumption,  St. 
Mary's  or  St.  Landry's,  Iberville  or 
Terrebonne,  whether  inhabitants  of  the 
multi-colored  and  many-balconied  Creole 
quarter  of  the  quaint  metropolis,  or  dwell 
ers  in  the  dreamy  paradises  of  the  Teche, 
— mingled  joyously,  knowing  each  other, 
feeling  in  some  sort  akin — whether  affili 
ated  by  blood,  connaturalized  by  caste,  or 
simply  interassociated  by  traditional  sym 
pathies  of  class  sentiment  and  class  in 
terest.  Perhaps  in  the  more  than  ordina 
ry  merriment  of  that  evening  something 
of  nervous  exaltation  might  have  been  dis 
cerned, — something  like  a  feverish  resolve 
to  oppose  apprehension  with  gayety,  to 
combat  uneasiness  by  diversion.  But  the 
hours  passed  in  mirthfulness;  the  first 
general  feeling  of  depression  began  to 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Derniere.     45 

weigh  less  and  less  upon  the  guests ;  they 
had  found  reason  to  confide  in  the  solid 
ity  of  the  massive  building ;  there  were 
no  positive  terrors,  no  outspoken  fears; 
and  the  new  conviction  of  all  had  found 
expression  in  the  words  of  the  host  him 
self, — "//  riy  a  rien  de  mieux  a  faire  que 
de  samuser !"  Of  what  avail  to  lament 
the  prospective  devastation  of  cane-fields, 
— to  discuss  the  possible  ruin  of  crops  ? 
Better  to  seek  solace  in  choregraphic  har 
monies,  in  the  rhythm  of  gracious  motion 
and  of  perfect  melody,  than  hearken  to 
the  discords  of  the  wild  orchestra  of 
storms; — wiser  to  admire  the  grace  of 
Parisian  toilets,  the  eddy  of  trailing  robes 
with  its  fairy-foam  of  lace,  the  ivorine 
loveliness  of  glossy  shoulders  and  jew 
elled  throats,  the  glimmering  of  satin-slip 
pered  feet, — than  to  watch  the  raging  of 
the  flood  without,  or  the  flying  of  the 
wrack.  , 


46  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

So  the  music  and  the  mirth  went  on: 
they  made  joy  for  themselves — those  ele 
gant  guests ; — they  jested  and  sipped  rich 
wines; — they  pledged,  and  hoped,  and 
loved,  and  promised,  with  never  a  thought 
of  the  morrow,  on  the  night  of  the  tenth 
of  August,  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-six. 
Observant  parents  were  there,  planning 
for  the  future  bliss  of  their  nearest  and 
dearest; — mothers  and  fathers  of  hand 
some  lads,  lithe  and  elegant  as  young 
pines,  and  fresh  from  the  polish  of  for 
eign  university  training; — mothers  and 
fathers  of  splendid  girls  whose  simplest 
attitudes  were  witcheries.  Young  cheeks 
flushed,  young  hearts  fluttered  with  an 
emotion  more  puissant  than  the  excite 
ment  of  the  dance ; — young  eyes  betrayed 
the  happy  secret  discreeter  lips  would 
have  preserved.  Slave -servants  circled 
through  the  aristocratic  press,  bearing 


XI 

The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      47 

dainties  and  wines,  praying  permission  to 
pass  in  terms  at  once  humble  and  offi 
cious, —  always  in  the  excellent  French 
which  well -trained  house-servants  were 
taught  to  use  on  such  occasions. 

.  .  .  Night  wore  on :  still  the  shining 
floor  palpitated  to  the  feet  of  the  dancers; 
still  the  piano-forte  pealed,  and  still  the 
violins  sang,  —  and  the  sound  of  their 
singing  shrilled  through  the  darkness,  in 
gasps  of  the  gale,  to  the  ears  of  Captain 
Smith,  as  he  strove  to  keep  his  footing  on 
the  spray-drenched  deck  of  the  Star. 

-"  Christ !"  he  muttered,—"  a  dance ! 
If  that  wind  whips  round  south,  there'll 
be  another  dance !  .  .  .  But  I  guess  the 
Star  will  stay.".  .  . 

Half  an  hour  might  have  passed ;  still 
the  lights  flamed  calmly,  and  the  violins 
trilled,  and  the  perfumed  whirl  went  on. 
.  .  .  And  suddenly  the  wind  veered ! 


48  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Again  the  Star  reeled,  and  shuddered, 
and  turned,  and  began  to  drag  all  her 
anchors.  But  she  now  dragged  away 
from  the  great  building  and  its  lights, — 
away  from  the  voluptuous  thunder  of  the 
grand  piano, — even  at  that  moment  out 
pouring  the  great  joy  of  Weber's  melody 
orchestrated  by  Berlioz :  r Invitation  a 
la  Valse, —  with  its  marvellous  musical 
swing !" 

— "  Waltzing!"  cried  the  captain.  "  God 
_Jielp  them  ! — God  help  us  all  now !  .  .  .  . 
\  The  Wind  waltzes  to-night,  with  the  Sea 
for  his  partner  /".  . .  — ^""^ 


O  the  stupendous  Valse -Tourbillon  ! 
O  the  mighty  Dancer!  One  —  two  — 
three  !  From  northeast  to  east,  from  east 
•  to  southeast,  from  southeast  to  south  : 
then  from  the  south  he  came,  whirling 
the  Sea  in  his  arms.  . 


The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      49 

.  .  .  Some  one  shrieked  in  the  midst 
of  the  revels; — some  girl  who  found  her 
pretty  slippers  wet.  What  could  it  be? 
Thin  streams  of  water  were  spreading 
over  the  level  planking, — curling  about 
the  feet  of  the  dancers.  .  .  .  What  could  it 
be?  All  the  land  had  begun  to  quake, 
even  as,  but  a  moment  before,  the  pol 
ished  floor  was  trembling  to  the  pressure 
of  circling  steps ; — all  the  building  shook 
now ;  every  beam  uttered  its  groan.  What 
could  it  be  ?  ... 

There  was  a  clamor,  a  panic,  a  rush  to 
the  windy  night.  Infinite  darkness  above 
and  beyond ;  but  the  lantern-beams  danced 
far  out  over  an  unbroken  circle  of  heav 
ing  and  swirling  black  water.  Stealth 
ily,  swiftly,  the  measureless  sea-flood  was 
rising. 

— "Messieurs — mesdames,  ce  nest  rien. 
Nothing  serious,  ladies,  I  assure  you. . . . 


5O  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Mais  nous  en  avons  vu  bien  souvent,  les 
inondations  comme  celle-ci;  fa  passe  vite  / 
The  water  will  go  down  in  a  few  hours, 
ladies ; — it  never  rises  higher  than  this ; 
il  riy  a  pas  le  moindre  danger,  je  vous 
dis  !  Allans  /  il  ny  a —  My  God !  what 
is  that?"... 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  ghastly  hush 
of  voices.  And  through  that  hush  there 
burst  upon  the  ears  of  all  a  fearful  and 
unfamiliar  sound,  as  of  a  colossal  can 
nonade — rolling  up  from  the  south,  with 
volleying  lightnings.  Vastly  and  swiftly, 
nearer  and  nearer  it  came, — a  ponderous 
and  unbroken  thunder-roll,  terrible  as  the 
long  muttering  of  an  earthquake. 

The  nearest  mainland, — across  mad 
Caillou  Bay  to  the  sea -marshes,  —  lay 
twelve  miles  north ;  west,  by  the  Gulf, 
the  nearest  solid  ground  was  twenty  miles 
distant.  There  were  boats,  yes ! — but  the 


y» 

The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      5 1 

stoutest  swimmer  might  never  reach  them 
now ! . . . 

Then  rose  a  frightful  cry, — the  hoarse, 
hideous,  indescribable  cry  of  hopeless  fear, 
— the  despairing  animal-cry  man  utters 
when  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with 
Nothingness,  without  preparation,  with 
out  consolation,  without  possibility  of  re 
spite Sauve  quipeut!  Some  wrenched 

down  the  doors ;  some  clung  to  the  heavy 
banquet-tables,  to  the  sofas,  to  the  billiard- 
tables  : — during  one  terrible  instant,— 
against  fruitless  heroisms,  against  futile 
generosities, — raged  all  the  frenzy  of  self^ 
ishness,  all  the  brutalities  of  panic.  And 
then  —  then  came,  thundering  through 
the  blackness,  the  giant  swells,  boom  on 
boom  !  .  .  .  .  One  crash ! — the  huge  frame 
building  rocks  like  a  cradle,  seesaws, 
crackles.  What  are  human  shrieks  now  ? 
— the  tornado  is  shrieking !  Another ! — 


52  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

chandeliers  splinter;  lights  are  dashed 
out ;  a  sweeping  cataract  hurls  in :  the 
immense  hall  rises, — oscillates, — twirls  as 
upon  a  pivot, — crepitates, — crumbles  into 
ruin.  Crash  again ! — the  swirling  wreck 
dissolves  into  the  wallowing  of  another 
monster  billow;  and  a  hundred  cottages 
overturn,  spin  in  sudden  eddies,  quiver, 
disjoint,  and  melt  into  the  seething. 

...  So  the  hurricane  passed, — tearing 
off  the  heads  of  the  prodigious  waves,  to 
hurl  them  a  hundred  feet  in  air, — heap 
ing  up  the  ocean  against  the  land, — 
upturning  the  woods.  Bays  and  passes 
were  swollen  to  abysses ;  rivers  regorged ; 
the  sea-marshes  were  changed  to  raging 
wastes  of  water.  Before  New  Orleans 
the  flood  of  the  mile -broad  Mississippi 
rose  six  feet  above  highest  water -mark. 
One  hundred  and  ten  miles  away,  Don- 
aldsonville  trembled  at  the  towering  tide 


The  Legend  of  Ulle  Demi  ere.       53 

of  the  Lafourche.  Lakes  strove  to  burst 
their  boundaries.  Far-off  river  steamers 
tugged  wildly  at  their  cables,  —  shiver 
ing  like  tethered  creatures  that  hear  by 
night  the  approaching  howl  of  destroy 
ers.  Smoke-stacks  were  hurled  over 
board,  pilot  -  houses  torn  away,  cabins 
blown  to  fragments. 

And  over  roaring  Kaimbuck  Pass, — 
over  the  agony  of  Caillou  Bay, — the  bil 
lowing  tide  rushed  unresisted  from  the 
Gulf,  —  tearing  and  swallowing  the  land 
in  its  course, — ploughing  out  deep-sea 
channels  where  sleek  herds  had  been 
grazing  but  a  few  hours  before,— rending 
islands  in  twain, — and  ever  bearing  with 
it,  through  the  night,  enormous  vortex  of 
wreck  and  vast  wan  drift  of  corpses.  . . . 

But  the  Star  remained.  And  Captain 
Abraham  Smith,  with  a  long,  good  rope 


54  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

about  his  waist,  dashed  again  and  again 
into  that  awful  surging  to  snatch  victims 
from  death, — clutching  at  passing  hands, 
heads,  garments,  in  the  cataract-sweep  of 
the  seas, — saving,  aiding,  cheering,  though 
blinded  by  spray  and  battered  by  drifting 
wreck,  until  his  strength  failed  in  the  un 
equal  struggle  at  last,  and  his  men  drew 
him  aboard  senseless,  with  some  beautiful 
half-drowned  girl  safe  in  his  arms.  But 
well-nigh  twoscore  souls  had  been  rescued 
by  him ;  and  the  Star  stayed  on  through 
it  all. 

Long  years  after,  the  weed-grown  ribs 
of  her  graceful  skeleton  could  still  be 
seen,  curving  up  from  the  sand-dunes  of 
Last  Island,  in  valiant  witness  of  how  well 

she  stayed. 

VII. 

Day  breaks  through  the  flying  wrack, 
over  the  infinite  heaving  of  the  sea,  over 


The  Legend  of  L1  lie  Dernier e.      55 

the  low  land  made  vast  with  desolation. 
It  is  a  spectral  dawn:  a  wan  light,  like 
the  light  of  a  dying  sun. 

The  wind  has  waned  and  veered ;  the 
flood  sinks  slowly  back  to  its  abysses — 
abandoning  its  plunder,  —  scattering  its 
piteous  waifs  over  bar  and  dune,  over 
shoal  and  marsh,  among  the  silences  of 
the  mango  -  swamps,  over  the  long  low 
reaches  of  sand  -  grasses  and  drowned 
weeds,  for  more  than  a  hundred  miles. 
From  the  shell-reefs  of  Pointe-au-Fer  to 
the  shallows  of  Pelto  Bay  the  dead  lie 
mingled  with  the  high -heaped  drift;— 
from  their  cypress  groves  the  vultures 
rise  to  dispute  a  share  of  the  feast  with 
the  shrieking  frigate-birds  and  squeaking 
/  gulls.  And  as  the  tremendous  tide  with 
draws  its  plunging  waters,  all  th^ftfrates^ 
of  air  follow  the  great  white^gTeaming 
retreat :  a  storm  of  billowing  wings  and 
screaming  throats. 


56  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

And  swift  in  the  wake  of  gull  and  frig- 
ate-bird  the  Wreckers  come,  the  Spoilers 
of  the  dead, — savage  skimmers  of  the  sea, 
— hurricane -riders  wont  to  spread  their 
canvas-pinions  in  the  face  of  storms ;  Si 
cilian  and  Corsican  outlaws,  Manila-men 
from  the  marshes,  deserters  from  many 
navies,  Lascars,  marooners,  refugees  of  a 
hundred  nationalities, — fishers  and  shrimp 
ers  by  name,  smugglers  by  opportunity, — 
wild  channel-finders  from  obscure  bayous 
and  unfamiliar  ch'enieres,  all  skilled  in  the 
mysteries  of  these  mysterious  waters  be 
yond  the  comprehension  of  the  oldest  li 
censed  pilot.  .  .  . 

There  is  plunder  for  all — birds  and  men. 
There  are  drowned  sheep  in  multitude, 
heaped  carcasses  of  kine.  There  are  casks 
of  claret  and  kegs  of  brandy  and  legions 
of  bottles  bobbing  in  the  surf.  There  are 
billiard-tables  overturned  upon  the  sand ; 


/\ 

The  Legend  of  L'lle  Dernier e.      57 

— there  are  sofas,  pianos,  footstools  and 
music-stools,  luxurious  chairs,  lounges  of 
bamboo.  There  are  chests  of  cedar,  and 
toilet-tables  of  rosewood,  and  trunks  of 
fine  stamped  leather  stored  with  precious 
apparel.  There  are  objets  de  luxe  innu 
merable.  There  are  children's  playthings : 
French  dolls  in  marvellous  toilets,  and 
toy  carts,  and  wooden  horses,  and  wooden 
spades,  and  brave  little  wooden  ships  that 
rode  out  the  gale  in  which  the  great 
Nautilus  went  down.  There  is  money  in 
notes  and  in  coin — in  purses,  in  pocket- 
books,  and  in  pockets :  plenty  of  it !  There 
are  silks,  satins,  laces,  and  fine  linen  to  be 
stripped  from  the  bodies  of  the  drowned, 
—  and  necklaces,  bracelets,  watches,  fin 
ger-rings  and  fine  chains,  brooches  and 
trinkets.  ..."  Chi  bidizza  ! — Oh  !  chi  bed- 
da  mughieri  /  Eccii,  la  bidizza  /"  That 
ball-dress  was  made  in  Paris  by —  But 


58  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

you  never  heard  of  him,  Sicilian  Vicen- 
zu.  .  .  .  "  Che  bella  sposina  /"  Her  be 
trothal  ring  will  not  come  off,  Giuseppe ; 
but  the  delicate  bone  snaps  easily:  your 
oyster -knife  can  sever  the  tendon.  .  .  . 
"  Guardate  !  chi  bedda  picciota  /"  Over 
her  heart  you  will  find  it,  Valentino — the 
locket  held  by  that  fine  Swiss  chain  of 
woven  hair — "  Cay  a  manan  /"  And  it  is 
not  your  quadroon  bondsmaid,  sweet  lady, 
who  now  disrobes  you  so  roughly ;  those 
Malay  hands  are  less  deft  than  hers, — 
but  she  slumbers  very  far  away  from  you, 
and  may  not  be  aroused  from  her  sleep. 
" Na  quit  a  mo!  dalaga  ! — na  quit  a  ma- 
ganda!" .  .  .  Juan,  the  fastenings  of  those 
diamond  ear-drops  are  much  too  compli 
cated  for  your  peon  fingers :  tear  them 
out ! — "  Dispense,  chulita  /" .  .  . 

.  .  .  Suddenly    a   long,  mighty   silver 
trilling  fills  the  ears  of  all :   there  is  a 


The  Legend  of  L?  lie  Derniere.      59 

wild  hurrying  and  scurrying  ;  swiftly,  one 
after  another,  the  overburdened  luggers 
spread  wings  and  flutter  away. 

Thrice  the  great  cry  rings  rippling 
through  the  gray  air,  and  over  the  green 
sea,  and  over  the  far-flooded  shell-reefs, 
where  the  huge  white  flashes  are, — sheet- 
lightning  of  breakers,  —  and  over  the 
weird  wash  of  corpses  coming  in. 

It  is  the  steam-call  of  the  relief-boat, 
hastening  to  rescue  the  living,  to  gather 
in  the  dead. 

The  tremendous  tragedy  is  over! 


PART  II. 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength,. 


OUT  OF   THE  SEA'S  STRENGTH. 

I. 

r  I  "HERE  are  regions  of  Louisiana 
A  coast  whose  aspect  seems  not  of 
the  present,  but  of  the  immemorial  past 
— of  that  epoch  when  low  flat  reaches  of 
primordial  continent  first  rose  into  form 
above  a  Silurian  Sea.  To  indulge  this 
geologic  dream,  any  fervid  and  breezeless 
day  there,  it  is  only  necessary  to  ignore 
the  evolutional  protests  of  a  few  blue 
asters  or  a  few  composite  flowers  of  the 
coryopsis  sort,  which  contrive  to  display 
their  rare  flashes  of  color  through  the 
general  waving  of  cat-heads,  blood-weeds, 
wild  cane,  and  marsh  grasses.  For,  at  a 
hasty  glance,  the  general  appearance  of 


64   Chita  :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

this  marsh  verdure  is  vague  enough,  as 
it  ranges  away  towards  the  sand,  to  con 
vey  the  idea  of  amphibious  vegetation, 
—  a  primitive  flora  as  yet  undecided 
whether  to  retain  marine  habits  and 
forms,  or  to  assume  terrestrial  ones  ;— 
and  the  occasional  inspection  of  surpris 
ing  shapes  might  strengthen  this  fancy. 
Queer  flat-lying  and  many- branching 
things,  which  resemble  sea-weeds  in  juici 
ness  and  color  and  consistency,  crackle 
under  your  feet  from  time  to  time ;  the 
moist  and  weighty  air  seems  heated  rath 
er  from  below  than  from  above, — less  by 

the  sun  than  by  the  radiation  of  a  cool- 

/ 

ing  world;  and  the  mists  of  morning  or 
evening  appear  to  simulate  the  vapory 
exhalation  of  volcanic  forces, — latent,  but 
^orily  dozing,  and  uncomfortably  close  to 
the  surface.  And  indeed  geologists  have 
actually  averred  that  those  rare  eleva- 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength.         65 

tions  cC  the  soil, — which,  with  their  heavy 
coronets  of  evergreen  foliage,  not  only 
look  like  islands,  but  are  so  called  in  the 
French  nomenclature  of  the  coast, — have 
been  prominences  created  by  ancient  mud 
volcanoes. 

The  family  of  a  Spanish  fisherman,  Fe- 
liu  Viosca,  once  occupied  and  gave  its 
name  to  such  an  islet,  quite  close  to  the 
Gulf-shore, — the  loftiest  bit  of  land  along 
fourteen  miles  of  just  such  marshy  coast 
as  I  have  spoken  of.  Landward,  it  dom 
inated  a  desolation  that  wearied  the  eye 
to  look  at,  a  wilderness  of  reedy  sloughs, 
patched  at  intervals  with  ranges  of  bitter- 
weed,  tufts  of  elbow-bushes,  and  broad 
reaches  of  saw-grass,  stretching  away  to 
a  bluish-green  line  of  woods  that  closed 
the  horizon,  and  imperfectly  drained  in 
the  driest  season  by  a  slimy  little  bayou 
that  continually  vomited  foul  water  into 


66  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Isl  md. 

the  sea.  The  point  had  been  much  dis 
cussed  by  geologists ;  it  proved  a  god 
send  to  United  States  surveyors  weary 
of  attempting  to  take  observations  among 
quagmires,  moccasins,  and  arborescent 
weeds  from  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  high. 
Savage  fishermen,  at  some  unrecorded 
time,  had  heaped  upon  the  eminence  a 
hill  of  clam-s*hells, — refuse  of  a  million 
feasts ;  earth  again  had  been  formed  over 
these,  perhaps  by  the  blind  agency  of 
worms  working  through  centuries  un 
numbered  ;  and  the  new  soil  had  given 
birth  to  a  luxuriant  vegetation.  Millen 
nial  oaks  interknotted  their  roots  below 
its  surface,  and  vouchsafed  protection  to 
many  a  frailer  growth  of  shrub  or  tree, 
— wild  orange,  water-willow,  palmetto,  lo 
cust,  pomegranate,  and  many  trailing  ten- 
drilled  things,  both  green  and  gray.  Then, 
— perhaps  about  half  a  century  ago, — a 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         67 

few  white  fishermen  cleared  a  place  for 
themselves  in  this  grove,  and  built  a  few 
palmetto  cottages,  with  boat-houses  and 
a  wharf,  facing  the  bayou.  Later  on  this 
temporary  fishing  station  became  a  per 
manent  settlement :  homes  constructed 
of  heavy  timber  and  plaster  mixed  with 
the  trailing  moss  of  the  oaks  and  cypress 
es  took  the  places  of  the  frail  and  fra 
grant  huts  of  palmetto.  Still  the  popu 
lation  itself  retained  a  floating  character : 
it  ebbed  and  came,  according  to  season 
and  circumstances,  according  to  luck  or 
loss  in  the  tilling  of  the  sea.  Viosca,  the 
founder  of  the  settlement,  always  re 
mained  ;  he  always  managed  to  do  well. 
He  owned  several  luggers  and  sloops, 
which  were  hired  out  upon  excellent 
terms ;  he  could  make  large  and  profita 
ble  contracts  with  New  Orleans  fish-deal 
ers;  and  he  was  vaguely  suspected  of 


68  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

possessing  more  occult  resources.  There 
were  some  confused  stories  current  about 
his  having  once  been  a  daring  smuggler, 
and  having  only  been  reformed  by  the 
pleadings  of  his  wife  Carmen, — a  little 
brown  woman  who  had  followed  him 
from  Barcelona  to  share  his  fortunes  in 
the  western  world. 

On  hot  days,  when  the  shade  was  full 
of  thin  sweet   scents,  the   place   had   a 
tropical  charm,  a  drowsy  peace.    Nothing 
except  the  peculiar  appearance  of  the  line 
of  oaks  facing  the  Gulf  could  have  con 
veyed    to    the  visitor  any  suggestion    of 
days  in  which  the  trilling  of  crickets  and 
the  fluting  of  birds  had  ceased,  of  nights 
when  the  voices  of  the  marsh  had  been 
hushed  for  fear.     In  one  enormous  ranlT^; 
the  veteran  trees  stood  shoulder  to  shoul-     \i 
der,  but  in  the  attitude   of  giants  over-      \ 
mastered, — forced  backward  towards  the 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         69 

f~\ 
marsh, — made  to  recoil  by  the  might  of  / 

the  ghostly  enemy  with  whom  they  had/ 
striven  a  thousand  years, — the  Shrieker/ 
the  Sky-Sweeper,  the  awful  Sea-Wind  ! 

Never  had  he  given  them  so  terrible  a 
wrestle  as  on  the  night  of  the  tenth  of 
August,  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-six. 
All  the  waves  of  the  excited  Gulf  thronged 
in  as  if  to  see,  and  lifted  up  their  voices, 
and  pushed,  and  roared,  until  the  cheniere 
was  islanded  by  such  a  billowing  as  no 
white  man's  eyes  had  ever  looked  upon 
before.  Grandly  the  oaks  bore  them 
selves,  but  every  fibre  of  their  knotted 
thews  was  strained  in  the  unequal  con 
test,  and  two  of  the  giants  were  over 
thrown,  upturning,  as  they  fell,  roots 
coiled  and  huge  as  the  serpent-limbs  of 
Titans.  Moved  to  its  entrails,  all  the 
islet  trembled,  while  the  sea  magnified  its 
menace,  and  reached  out  whitely  to  the 


7O  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

prostrate  trees ;  but  the  rest  of  the  oaks 
stood  on,  and  strove  in  line,  and  saved 
the  habitations  defended  by  them.  .  .  . 

II. 

Before  a  little  waxen  image  of  the 
Mother  and  Child, — an  odd  little  Virgin 
with  an  Indian  face,  brought  home  by 
Feliu  as  a  gift  after  one  of  his  Mexican 
voyages, —  Carmen  Viosca  had  burned 
candles  and  prayed ;  sometimes  telling 
her  beads ;  sometimes  murmuring  the 
litanies  she  knew  by  heart;  sometimes 
also  reading  from  a  prayer-book  worn  and 
greasy  as  a  long-used  pack  of  cards.  It 
was  particularly  stained  at  one  page,  a 
page  on  which  her  tears  had  fallen  many 
a  lonely  night — a  page  with  a  clumsy 
wood-cut  representing  a  celestial  lamp,  a 
symbolic  radiance,  shining  through  dark- 
ness,  and  on  either  side  a  kneeling  angel 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.  7 1 

with  folded  wings.  And  beneath  this 
rudely  wrought  symbol  of  the  Perpetual 
Calm  appeared  in  big,  coarse  type  the 
title  of  a  prayer  that  has  been  offered  up 
through  many  a  century,  doubtless,  by 
wives  of  Spanish  mariners, — Contra  las 
Tempestades. 

Once  she  became  very  much  fright 
ened.  After  a  partial  lull  the  storm  had 
suddenly  redoubled  its  force :  the  ground 
shook ;  the  house  quivered  and  creaked ; 
the  wind  brayed  and  screamed  and  pushed 
and  scuffled  at  the  door ;  and  the  water, 
which  had  been  whipping  in  through 
every  crevice,  all  at  once  rose  over  the 
threshold  and  flooded  the  dwelling.  Car 
men  dipped  her  finger  in  the  water  and 
tasted  it.  It  was  salt ! 

And  none  of  Feliu's  boats  had  yet  come 
in ; — doubtless  they  had  been  driven  into 
some  far-away  bayous  by  the  storm.  The 


72  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

only  boat  at  the  settlement,  the  Carmen- 
cita,  had  been  almost  wrecked  by  running 
upon  a  snag  three  days  before; — there 
was  at  least  a  fortnight's  work  for  the 
ship-carpenter  of  Dead  Cypress  Point. 
And  Feliu  was  sleeping  as  if  nothing  un 
usual  had  happened — the  heavy  sleep  of 
a  sailor,  heedless  of  commotions  and 
voices.  And  his  men,  Miguel  and  Mateo, 
were  at  the  other  end  of  the  chenwre. 

With  a  scream  Carmen  aroused  Feliu. 
He  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  asked  her,  with  exasperat 
ing  calmness,  "  Que  tienes  ?  que  tienes  ?" 
(What  ails  thee  ?) 

— "  Oh,  Feliu  !  the  sea  is  coming  upon 
us !"  she  answered,  in  the  same  tongue. 
But  she  screamed  out  a  word  inspired  by 
her  fear:  she  did  not  cry,  "Se  nos  viene 
el  mar  encima  /"  but  "  Se  nos  viene  LA 
ALTURA  !" — the  name  that  conveys  the 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.  73 

terrible  thought  of  depth  swallowed  up  in 
height, — the  height  of  the  high  sea. 

"  No  lo  creo  /"  muttered  Feliu,  looking 
at  the  floor;  then  in  a  quiet,  deep  voice 
he  said,  pointing  to  an  oar  in  the  corner 
of  the  room,  "Echame  ese  remo." 

She  gave  it  to  him.  Still  reclining 
upon  one  elbow,  Feliu  measured  the  depth 
of  the  water  with  his  thumb-nail  upon  the 
blade  of  the  oar,  and  then  bade  Carmen 
light  his  pipe  for  him.  His  calmness 
reassured  her.  For  half  an  hour  more, 
undismayed  by  the  clamoring  of  the  wind 
or  the  calling  of  the  sea,  Feliu  silently 
smoked  his  pipe  and  watched  his  oar. 
The  water  rose  a  little  higher,  and  he 
made  another  mark ; — then  it  climbed  a 
little  more,  but  not  so  rapidly ;  and  he 
smiled  at  Carmen  as  he  made  a  third 
mark.  "  Como  creia  /"  he  exclaimed,  "  no 
hay  porque  asustarse :  el  agua  baja  /" 


74  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

And  as  Carmen  would  have  continued  to 
pray,  he  rebuked  her  fears,  and  bade  her 
try  to  obtain  some  rest :  "  Basta  ya  de 
plegarios,  querida  ! — vete  y  duerme"  His 
tone,  though  kindly,  was  imperative ;  and 
Carmen,  accustomed  to  obey  him,  laid 
herself  down  by  his  side,  and  soon,  for 
very  weariness,  slept. 

It  was  a  feverish  sleep,  nevertheless, 
shattered  at  brief  intervals  by  terrible 
sounds, — sounds  magnified  by  her  nervous 
condition — a  sleep  visited  by  dreams  that 
mingled  in  a  strange  way  with  the  im 
pressions  of  the  storm,  and  more  than 
once  made  her  heart  stop,  and  start  again 
at  its  own  stopping.  One  of  these  fan 
cies  she  never  could  forget — a  dream 
about  little  Concha, — Conchita,  her  first 
born,  who  now  slept  far  away  in  the 
old  churchyard  at  Barcelona.  She  had 
tried  to  become  resigned, — not  to  think. 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          75 

But  the  child  would  come  back  night  after 
night,  though  the  earth  lay  heavy  upon 
her — night  after  night,  through  long  dis 
tances  of  Time  and  Space.  Oh !  the 
fancied  clinging  of  infant-lips  ! — the  thrill 
ing  touch  of  little  ghostly  hands  ! — those 
phantom -caresses  that  torture  mothers' 
hearts!  .  .  .  Night  after  night,  through 
many  a  month  of  pain.  Then  for  a  time 
the  gentle  presence  ceased  to  haunt  her, 
— seemed  to  have  lain  down  to  sleep  for 
ever  under  the  high  bright  grass  and  yel 
low  flowers.  Why  did  it  return,  that  night 
of  all  nights,  to  kiss  her,  to  cling  to  her, 
to  nestle  in  her  arms  ?  .  .  . 

For  in  her  dream  she  thought  herself 
still  kneeling  before  the  waxen  Image, 
while  the  terrors  of  the  tempest  were  ever 
deepening  about  her, —  raving  of  winds 
and  booming  of  waters  and  a  shaking  of 
the  land.  And  before  her,  even  as  she 


76  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

prayed  her  dream-prayer,  the  waxen  Vir 
gin  became  tall  as  a  woman,  and  taller, — 
rising  to  the  roof  and  smiling  as  she  grew. 
Then  Carmen  would  have  cried  out  for 
fear,  but  that  something  smothered  her 
voice, — paralyzed  her  tongue.  And  the 
Virgin  silently  stooped  above  her,  and 
placed  in  her  arms  the  Child, — the  brown 
Child  with  the  Indian  face.  And  the 
Child  whitened  in  her  hands  and  changed, 
— seeming  as  it  changed  to  send  a  sharp 
pain  through  her  heart :  an  old  pain  linked 
somehow  with  memories  of  bright  windy 
Spanish  hills,  and  summer-scent  of  olive 
groves,  and  all  the  luminous  Past; — it 
looked  into  her  face  with  the  soft  dark 
gaze,  with  the  unforgotten  smile  of  ... 
dead  Conchita! 

And  Carmen  wished  to  thank  the  smil 
ing  Virgin  for  that  priceless  bliss,  and 
lifted  up  her  eyes;  but  the  sickness  of 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength.          77 

ghostly  fear  returned  upon  her  when  she 
looked ;  for  now  the  Mother  seemed  as  a 
woman  long  dead,  and  the  smile  was  the 
smile  of  fleshlessness,  and  the  places  of 
the  eyes  were  voids  and  darknesses.  .  .  . 
And  the  sea  sent  up  so  vast  a  roar  that 
the  dwelling  rocked. 

Carmen  started  from  sleep  to  find  her 
heart  throbbing  so  that  the  couch  shook 
with  it.  Night  was  growing  gray;  the 
door  had  just  been  opened  and  slammed 
again.  Through  the  rain-whipped  panes 
she  discerned  the  passing  shape  of  Feliu, 
making  for  the  beach — a  broad  and  beard 
ed  silhouette,  bending  against  the  wind. 
Still  the  waxen  Virgin  smiled  her  Mexi 
can  smile, — but  now  she  was  only  seven 
inches  high ;  and  her  bead -glass  eyes 
seemed  to  twinkle  with  kindliness  while  the 
flame  of  the  last  expiring  taper  struggled 
for  life  in  the  earthen  socket  at  her  feet. 


78  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

III. 

Rain  and  a  blind  sky  and  a  bursting 
sea.  Feliu  and  his  men,  Miguel  and  Ma- 
teo,  looked  out  upon  the  thundering  and 
flashing  of  the  monstrous  tide.  The  wind 
had  fallen,  and  the  gray  air  was  full  of 
gulls.  Behind  the  c/ieniere,  back  to  the 
cloudy  line  of  low  woods  many  miles 
away,  stretched  a  wash  of  lead -colored 
water,  with  a  green  point  piercing  it  here 
and  there — elbow-bushes  or  wild  cane  tall 
enough  to  keep  their  heads  above  the 
flood.  But  the  inundation  was  visibly 
decreasing; — with  the  passing  of  each 
hour  more  and  more  green  patches  and 
points  had  been  showing  themselves :  by 
degrees  the  course  of  the  bayou  had  be 
come  defined — two  parallel  winding  lines 
of  dwarf-timber  and  bushy  shrubs  trav 
ersing  the  water  toward  the  distant  cy- 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.  79 

press -swamps.  Before  the  ch'eniere  all 
the  shell-beach  slope  was  piled  with  wreck 
— uptorn  trees  with  the  foliage  still  fresh 
upon  them,  splintered  timbers  of  mysteri 
ous  origin,  and  logs  in  multitude,  scarred 
with  gashes  of  the  axe.  Feliu  and  his 
comrades  had  saved  wood  enough  to  build 
a  little  town, — working  up  to  their  waists 
in  the  surf,  with  ropes,  poles,  and  boat- 
hooks.  The  whole  sea  was  full  of  flotsam. 
Voto  a  Cristo  ! — what  a  wrecking  there 
must  have  been !  And  to  think  the  Car- 
mencita  could  not  be  taken  out ! 

They  had  seen  other  luggers  making 
eastward  during  the  morning — could  rec 
ognize  some  by  their  sails,  others  by  their 
gait, — exaggerated  in  their  struggle  with 
the  pitching  of  the  sea:  the  San  Pablo, 
the  Gasparina,  the  Enriqueta,  the  Ague- 
da,  the  Constanza.  Ugly  water,  yes !  — 
but  what  a  chance  for  wreckers  ! .  .  Some 


8o  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

great  ship  must  have  gone  to  pieces ; — - 
scores  of  casks  were  rolling  in  the  trough, 
— casks  of  wine.  Perhaps  it  was  the  Ma 
nila, — perhaps  the  Nautilus! 

A  dead  cow  floated  near  enough  for 
Mateo  to  throw  his  rope  over  one  horn ; 
and  they  all  helped  to  get  it  out.  It  was 
a  milch  cow  of  some  expensive  breed ;  and 
the  owner's  brand  had  been  burned  upon 
the  horns  : — a  monographic  combination 
of  the  letters  A  and  P.  Feliu  said  he 
knew  that  brand:  Old-man  Preaulx,  of 
Belle- Isle,  who  kept  a  sort  of  dairy  at  Last 
Island  during  the  summer  season,  used  to 
mark  all  his  cows  that  way.  Strange ! 

But,  as  they  worked  on,  they  began  to 
see  stranger  things, — white  dead  faces  and 
dead  hands,  which  did  not  look  like  the 
hands  or  the  faces  of  drowned  sailors: 
the  ebb  was  beginning  to  run  strongly, 
and  these  were  passing  out  with  it  on  the 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength.          8 1 

other  side  of  the  mouth  of  the  bayou ; — 
perhaps  they  had  been  washed  into  the 
marsh  during  the  night,  when  the  great 
rush  of  the  sea  came.  Then  the  three 
men  left  the  water,  and  retired  to  higher 
ground  to  scan  the  furrowed  Gulf ; — their 
practised  eyes  began  to  search  the  courses 
of  the  sea-currents, — keen  as  the  gaze  of 
birds  that  watch  the  wake  of  the  plough. 
And  soon  the  casks  and  the  drift  were 
forgotten ;  for  it  seemed  to  them  that  the 
tide  was  heavy  with  human  dead— pass 
ing  out,  processionally,  to  the  great  open. 
Very  far,  where  the  huge  pitching  of  the 
swells  was  diminished  by  distance  into  a 
mere  fluttering  of  ripples,  the  water  ap 
peared  as  if  sprinkled  with  them ; — they 
vanished  and  became  visible  again  at  ir 
regular  intervals,  here  and  there — floating 
most  thickly  eastward, — tossing,  swaying 
patches  of  white  or  pink  or  blue  or  black, 


82  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

each  with  its  tiny  speck  of  flesh -color 
showing  as  the  sea  lifted  or  lowered  the 
body.  Nearer  to  shore  there  were  few ; 
but  of  these  two  were  close  enough  to  be 
almost  recognizable :  Miguel  first  dis 
cerned  them.  They  were  rising  and  fall 
ing  where  the  water  was  deepest — well  out 
in  front  of  the  mouth  of  the  bayou,  be 
yond  the  flooded  sand-bars,  and  moving 
toward  the  shell -reef  westward.  They 
were  drifting  almost  side  by  side.  One 
was  that  of  a  negro,  apparently  well  at 
tired,  and  wearing  a  white  apron ; — the 
other  seemed  to  be  a  young  colored  girl, 
clad  in  a  blue  dress ;  she  was  floating  upon 
her  face ;  they  could  observe  that  she 
had  nearly  straight  hair,  braided  and  tied 
with  a  red  ribbon.  These  were  evident 
ly  house  -  servants, —  slaves.  But  from 
whence  ?  Nothing  could  be  learned  un 
til  the  luggers  should  return ;  and  none  of 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          83 

them  was  yet  in  sight.  Still  Feliu  was 
not  anxious  as  to  the  fate  of  his  boats, 
manned  by  the  best  sailors  of  the  coast. 
Rarely  are  these  Louisiana  fishermen  lost 
in  sudden  storms ;  even  when  to  other 
eyes  the  appearances  are  most  pacific  and 
the  skies  most  splendidly  blue,  they  divine 
some  far-off  danger,  like  the  gulls;  and 
like  the  gulls  also,  you  see  their  light  ves 
sels  fleeing  landward.  These  men  seem 
living  barometers,  exquisitely  sensitive  to 
all  the  invisible  changes  of  atmospheric 
expansion  and  compression ;  they  are  not 
easily  caught  in  those  awful  dead  calms 
which  suddenly  paralyze  the  wings  of 
a  bark,  and  hold  her  helpless  in  their 
charmed  circle,  as  in  a  nightmare,  until 
the  blackness  overtakes  her,  and  the  long- 
sleeping  sea  leaps  up  foaming  to  devour 
her. 


84  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

— "  Carajo  /" 

The  word  all  at  once  bursts  from  Fe- 
liu's  mouth,  with  that  peculiar  guttural 
snarl  of  the  "r"  betokening  strong  ex 
citement, — while  he  points  to  something 
rocking  in  the  ebb,  beyond  the  foaming 
of  the  shell-reef,  under  a  circling  of  gulls. 
More  dead  ?  Yes — but  something  too  that 
lives  and  moves,  like  a  quivering  speck  of 
gold ;  and  Mateo  also  perceives  it,  a  gleam 
of  bright  hair, — and  Miguel  likewise,  af 
ter  a  moment's  gazing.  A  living  child ; — 
a  lifeless  mother.  Pobrecita!  No  boat  with 
in  reach,  and  only  a  mighty  surf-wrestler 
could  hope  to  swim  thither  and  return ! 

But  already,  without  a  word,  brown  Fe- 
liu  has  stripped  for  the  struggle ; — another 
second,  and  he  is  shooting  through  the 
surf,  head  and  hands  tunnelling  the  foam- 
hills One — two — three  lines  passed  ! — 

four! — that  is  where  they  first  begin  to 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          85 

crumble  white  from  the  summit, — five! 
— that  he  can  ride  fearlessly!  .  .  .  Then 
swiftly,  easily,  he  advances,  with  a  long, 
powerful  breast  -  stroke,  —  keeping  his 
bearded  head  well  up  to  watch  for  drift, 
— seeming  to  slide  with  a  swing  from 
swell  to  swell, — ascending,  sinking, — al 
ternately  presenting  breast  or  shoulder  to 
the  wave ;  always  diminishing  more  and 
more  to  the  eyes  of  Mateo  and  Miguel, — 
till  he  becomes  a  moving  speck,  occasion 
ally  hard  to  follow  through  the  confusion 
of  heaping  waters.  .  .  .  You  are  not  afraid 
of  the  sharks,  Feliu  ! — no :  they  are  afraid 
of  you ;  right  and  left  they  slunk  away 
from  your  coming  that  morning  you  swam 
for  life  in  West-Indian  waters,  with  your 
knife  in  your  teeth,  while  the  balls  of  the 
Cuban  coast-guard  were  purring  all  around 
you.  That  day  the  swarming  sea  was 
warm, — warm  like  soup — and  clear,  with 


86  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

an  emerald  flash  in  every  ripple,  —  not 
opaque  and  clamorous  like  the  Gulf  to 
day.  .  .  .  Miguel  and  his  comrade  are 
anxious.  Ropes  are  unrolled  and  inter- 
knotted  into  a  line.  Miguel  remains  on 
the  beach ;  but  Mateo,  bearing  the  end 
of  the  line,  fights  his  way  out, — swimming 
and  wading  by  turns,  to  the  further  sand 
bar,  where  the  water  is  shallow  enough 
to  stand  in, — if  you  know  how  to  jump 
when  the  breaker  comes. 

But  Feliu,  nearing  the  flooded  shell- 
bank,  watches  the  white  flashings, — knows 
when  the  time  comes  to  keep  flat  and  take 
a  long,  long  breath.  One  heavy  volley 
ing  of  foam, — darkness  and  hissing  as  of 
a  steam-burst ;  a  vibrant  lifting  up ;  a  rush 
into  light, — and  again  the  volleying  and 
the  seething  darkness.  Once  more, — and 
the  fight  is  won !  He  feels  the  upcoming 
chill  of  deeper  water, — sees  before  him 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         87 

the  green  quaking  of  unbroken  swells, — 
and  far  beyond  him  Mateo  leaping  on  the 
bar, — and  beside  him,  almost  within  arm's- 
reach,  a  great  billiard-table  swaying,  and 
a  dead  woman  clinging  there,  and  .... 
the  child. 

A  moment  more,  and  Feliu  has  lifted 
himself  beside  the  waifs.  .  .  .  How  fast  the 
dead  woman  clings,  as  if  with  the  one 
power  which  is  strong  a?  death, — the  des 
perate  force  of  love !  Not  in  vain ;  for 
the  frail  creature  bound  to  the  mother's 
corpse  with  a  silken  scarf  has  still  the 
strength  to  cry  out : — "  Maman  /  maman  /" 
But  time  is  life  now ;  and  the  tiny  hands 
must  be  pulled  away  from  the  fair  dead 
neck,  and  the  scarf  taken  to  bind  the  in 
fant  firmly  to  Feliu's  broad  shoulders, — 
quickly,  roughly;  for  the  ebb  will  not 
wait.  .  .  . 

And  now  Feliu  has  a  burden ;  but  his 


88  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

style  of  swimming  has  totally  changed ; — 
he  rises  from  the  water  like  a  Triton,  and 
his  powerful  arms  seem  to  spin  in  circles, 
like  the  spokes  of  a  flying  wheel.  For 
now  is  the  wrestle  indeed! — after  each 
passing  swell  comes  a  prodigious  pulling 
from  beneath, — the  sea  clutching  for  its 
prey.  But  the  reef  is  gained,  is  passed ; — 
the  wild  horses  of  the  deep  seem  to  know 
the  swimmer  who  has  learned  to  ride  them 
so  well.  And  still  the  brown  arms  spin 
in  an  ever-nearing  mist  of  spray ;  and  the 
outer  sand-bar  is  not  far  off, — and  there  is 
shouting  Mateo,  leaping  in  the  surf,  swing 
ing  something  about  his  head,  as  a  vaquero 
swings  his  noose  !  .  .  .  .  Sough  !  splash  ! — 
it  struggles  in  the  trough  beside  Feliu, 
and  the  sinewy  hand  descends  upon  it. 
Tiene ! — tira,  Miguel!  And  their  feet 
touch  land  again !  .  .  . 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         89 

She  is  very  cold,  the  child,  and  very 
still,  with  eyes  closed. 

— "  Esta  muerta,  Feliu  ?"  asks  Mateo. 

— "  No  /"  the  panting  swimmer  makes 
answer,  emerging,  while  the  waves  reach 
whitely  up  the  sand  as  in  pursuit, — "  no  ; 
vive  / — respira  todavia  /" 

Behind  him  the  deep  lifts  up  its  million 
hands,  and  thunders  as  in  acclaim. 

IV. 

—  "  Madre  de  Dios  !  —  mi  sueno  /" 
screamed  Carmen,  abandoning  her  prepa 
rations  for  the  morning  meal,  as  Feliu, 
nude,  like  a  marine  god,  rushed  in  and 
held  out  to  her  a  dripping  and  gasping 
baby-girl, — "  Mother  of  God  !  my  dream  !" 
But  there  was  no  time  then  to  tell  of 
dreams ;  the  child  might  die.  In  one  in 
stant  Carmen's  quick,  deft  hands  had 
stripped  the  slender  little  body ;  and  while 


9O  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Mateo  and  Feliu  were  finding  dry  cloth 
ing  and  stimulants,  and  Miguel  telling 
how  it  all  happened — quickly,  passionately, 
with  furious  gesture, — the  kind  and  vig 
orous  woman  exerted  all  her  skill  to  re 
vive  the  flickering  life.  Soon  Feliu  came 
to  aid  her,  while  his  men  set  to  work  com 
pleting  the  interrupted  preparation  of  the 
breakfast.  Flannels  were  heated  for  the 
friction  of  the  frail  limbs;  and  brandy- 
and-water  warmed,  which  Carmen  admin 
istered  by  the  spoonful,  skilfully  as  any 
physician, — until,  at  last,  the  little  creat 
ure  opened  her  eyes  and  began  to  sob. 
Sobbing  still,  she  was  laid  in  Carmen's 
warm  feather-bed,  well  swathed  in  woollen 
wrappings.  The  immediate  danger,  at 
least,  was  over ;  and  Feliu  smiled  with 
pride  and  pleasure. 

Then  Carmen  first  ventured  to  relate 
her  dream ;  and  his  face  became  grave 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          9 1 

again.  Husband  and  wife  gazed  a  mo 
ment  into  each  other's  eyes,  feeling  to 
gether  the  same  strange  thrill — that  mys 
terious  faint  creeping,  as  of  a  wind  pass 
ing,  which  is  the  awe  of  the  Unknowable. 
Then  they  looked  at  the  child,  lying  there, 
pink-cheeked  with  the  flush  of  the  blood 
returning;  and  such  a  sudden  tenderness 
touched  them  as  they  had  known  long 
years  before,  while  together  bending  above 
the  slumbering  loveliness  of  lost  Conchita. 
— "  Que  ojos  /"  murmured  Feliu,  as  he 
turned  away, — feigning  hunger.  .  .  .  (He 
was  not  hungry ;  but  his  sight  had  grown 
a  little  dim,  as  with  a  mist.)  Que  ojos ! 
They  were  singular  eyes,  large,  dark,  and 
wonderfully  fringed.  The  child's  hair 
was  yellow — it  was  the  flash  of  it  that 
had  saved  her;  yet  her  eyes  and  brows 
were  beautifully  black.  She  was  comely, 
but  with  such  a  curious,  delicate  comeli- 


92  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

ness — totally  unlike  the  robust  beauty  of 
Concha.  ...  At  intervals  she  would  moan 
a  little  between  her  sobs ;  and  at  last  cried 
out,  with  a  thin,  shrill  cry :  "  Maman  ! — 
oh  !  maman !"  Then  Carmen  lifted  her 
from  the  bed  to  her  lap,  and  caressed  her, 
and  rocked  her  gently  to  and  fro,  as  she 
had  done  many  a  night  for  Concha, — mur 
muring, — "  Yo  sere  tu  madre,  angel  mio, 
dulzura  mia  ; — sere  tu  madrecita,palomita 
mia  /"  (I  will  be  thy  mother,  my  angel, 
my  sweet; — I  will  be  thy  little  mother, 
my  doveling.)  And  the  long  silk  fringes 
of  the  child's  eyes  overlapped,  shadowed 
her  little  cheeks;  and  she  slept — just  as 
Conchita  had  slept  long  ago, — with  her 
head  on  Carmen's  bosom. 

Feliu  re-appeared  at  the  inner  door :  at 
a  sign,  he  approached  cautiously,  without 
noise,  and  looked. 

— "  She  can  talk,"  whispered  Carmen  in 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          93 

Spanish:  "she  called  her  mother" — ha 
llamado  a  su  madre. 

— "  Y  Dios  tambien  la  ha  llamado?  re 
sponded  Feliu,  with  rude  pathos ; — "  And 
God  also  called  her? 

— "But  the  Virgin  sent  us  the  child, 
Feliu, — sent  us  the  child  for  Concha's 
sake." 

He  did  not  answer  at  once ;  he  seemed 
to  be  thinking  very  deeply ; — Carmen  anx 
iously  scanned  his  impassive  face. 

— "  Who  knows?"  he  answered, at  last ; 
— "  who  knows  ?  Perhaps  she  has  ceased 
to  belong  to  any  one  else." . . . 

One  after  another,  Feliu's  luggers  flut 
tered  in, — bearing  with  them  news  of  the 
immense  calamity.  And  all  the  fisher 
men,  in  turn,  looked  at  the  child.  Not 
one  had  ever  seen  her  before. 


94  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

V. 

Ten  days  later,  a  lugger  full  of  armed 
men  entered  the  bayou,  and  moored  at 
Viosca's  wharf.  The  visitors  were,  for 
the  most  part,  country  gentlemen, — resi 
dents  of  Franklin  and  neighboring  towns, 
or  planters  from  the  Teche  country, — 
forming  one  of  the  numerous  expeditions 
organized  for  the  purpose  of  finding  the 
bodies  of  relatives  or  friends  lost  in  the 
great  hurricane,  and  of  punishing  the  rob 
bers  of  the  dead.  They  had  searched 
numberless  nooks  of  the  coast,  had  given 
sepulture  to  many  corpses,  had  recovered 
a  large  amount  of  jewelry,  and — as  Feliu 
afterward  learned, — had  summarily  tried 
and  executed  several  of  the  most  aban 
doned  class  of  wreckers  found  with  ill- 
gotten  valuables  in  their  possession,  and 
convicted  of  having  mutilated  the  drowned. 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength.         95 

But  they  came  to  Viosca's  landing  only 
to  obtain  information ; — he  was  too  well 
known  and  liked  to  be  a  subject  for  sus 
picion  ;  and,  moreover,  he  had  one  good 
friend  in  the  crowd, — Captain  Harris  of 
New  Orleans,  a  veteran  steamboat  man 
and  a  market-contractor,  to  whom  he  had 
disposed  of  many  a  cargo  of  fresh  pom- 
pano,  sheep's-head,  and  Spanish  -  mack 
erel.  .  .  .  Harris  was  the  first  to  step  to 
land;  —  some  ten  of  the  party  followed 
him.  Nearly  all  had  lost  some  relative 
or  friend  in  the  great  catastrophe ; — the 
gathering  was  serious,  silent,  —  almost 
grim, — which  formed  about  Feliu. 

Mateo,  who  had  come  to  the  country 
while  a  boy,  spoke  English  better  than 
the  rest  of  the  cfieniere  people ;— he  acted 
as  interpreter  whenever  Feliu  found  any 
difficulty  in  comprehending  or  answering 
questions ;  and  he  told  them  of  the  child 


96  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

rescued  that  wild  morning,  and  of  Feliu's 
swim.  His  recital  evoked  a  murmur  of 
interest  and  excitement,  followed  by  a 
confusion  of  questions.  Well,  they  could 
see  for  themselves,  Feliu  said ;  but  he 
hoped  they  would  have  a  little  patience ; — 
the  child  was  still  weak ; — it  might  be  dan 
gerous  to  startle  her.  "  We'll  arrange  it 
just  as  you  like,"  responded  the  captain ; — 
"  go  ahead,  Feliu !"  . . . 

All  proceeded  to  the  house,  under  the 
great  trees;  Feliu  and  Captain  Harris 
leading  the  way.  It  was  sultry  and 
bright ; — even  the  sea-breeze  was  warm ; 
there  were  pleasant  odors  in  the  shade, 
and  a  soporific  murmur  made  of  leaf-speech 
and  the  hum  of  gnats.  Only  the  captain 
entered  the  house  with  Feliu ;  the  rest  re 
mained  without — some  taking  seats  on  a 
rude  plank  bench  under  the  oaks — others 
flinging  themselves  down  upon  the  weeds 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength.         97 

— a  few  stood  still,  leaning  upon  their  ri 
fles.  Then  Carmen  came  out  to  them 
with  gourds  and  a  bucket  of  fresh  water, 
which  all  were  glad  to  drink. 

They  waited  many  minutes.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  cool  peace  of  the  place  that 
made  them  all  feel  how  hot  and  tired  they 
were :  conversation  flagged ;  and  the  gen 
eral  languor  finally  betrayed  itself  in  a  si 
lence  so  absolute  that  every  leaf-whisper 
seemed  to  become  separately  audible. 

It  was  broken  at  last  by  the  guttural 
voice  of  the  old  captain  emerging  from 
the  cottage,  leading  the  child  by  the  hand, 
and  followed  by  Carmen  and  Feliu.  All 
who  had  been  resting  rose  up  and  looked 
at  the  child. 

Standing  in  a  lighted  space,  with  one 
tiny  hand  enveloped  by  the  captain's  great 
brown  fist,  she  looked  so  lovely  that  a 
general  exclamation  of  surprise  went  up. 


98  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Her  bright  hair,  loose  and  steeped  in  the 
sun-flame,  illuminated  her  like  a  halo ; 
and  her  large  dark  eyes,  gentle  and  mel 
ancholy  as  a  deer's,  watched  the  strange 
faces  before  her  with  shy  curiosity.  She 
wore  the  same  dress  in  which  Feliu  had 
found  her — a  soft  white  fabric  of  muslin, 
with  trimmings  of  ribbon  that  had  once 
been  blue  ;  and  the  now  discolored  silken 
scarf,  which  had  twice  done  her  such  brave 
service,  was  thrown  over  her  shoulders. 
Carmen  had  washed  and  repaired  the 
dress  very  creditably ;  but  the  tiny  slim 
feet  were  bare, — the  brine-soaked  shoes 
she  wore  that  fearful  night  had  fallen 
into  shreds  at  the  first  attempt  to  remove 
them. 

— "  Gentlemen,"  said  Captain  Harris, — 
"  we  can  find  no  clew  to  the  identity  of 
this  child.  There  is  no  mark  upon  her 
clothing;  and  she  wore  nothing  in  the 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          99 

shape  of  jewelry — except  this  string  of 
coral  beads.  We  are  nearly  all  Ameri 
cans  here;  and  she  does  not  speak  any 
English.  .  .  .  Does  any  one  here  know 
anything  about  her?" 

Carmen  felt  a  great  sinking  at  her 
heart:  was  her  new-found  darling  to  be 
taken  so  soon  from  her  ?  But  no  answer 
came  to  the  captain's  query.  No  one  of 
the  expedition  had  ever  seen  that  child 
before.  The  coral  beads  were  passed  from 
hand  to  hand ;  the  scarf  was  minutely 
scrutinized  without  avail.  Somebody  ask 
ed  if  the  child  could  not  talk  German  or 
Italian. 

— "  Italiano  ?  No  /"  said  Feliu,  shaking 
his  head.  .  .  .  One  of  his  luggermen,  Gio- 
achino  Sparicio,  who,  though  a  Sicilian, 
could  speak  several  Italian  idioms  besides 
his  own,  had  already  essayed. 

— "  She  speaks  something  or  other," 


ioo  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

answered  the  captain — "  but  no  English. 
I  couldn't  make  her  understand  me;  and 
Feliu,  who  talks  nearly  all  the  infernal 
languages  spoken  down  this  way,  says  he 
can't  make  her  understand  him.  Suppose 
some  of  you  who  know  French  talk  to  her 
a  bit.  .  .  .  Laroussel,  why  don't  you  try  ?" 

The  young  man  addressed  did  not  at 
first  seem  to  notice  the  captain's  sugges 
tion.  He  was  a  tall,  lithe  fellow,  with  a 
dark,  positive  face :  he  had  never  removed 
his  black  gaze  from  the  child  since  the 
moment  of  her  appearance.  Her  eyes, 
too,  seemed  to  be  all  for  him — to  return 
his  scrutiny  with  a  sort  of  vague  pleas 
ure,  a  half-savage  confidence.  .  .  .  Was  it 
the  first  embryonic  feeling  of  race-affinity 
quickening  in  the  little  brain? — some 
intuitive,  inexplicable  sense  of  kindred? 
She  shrank  from  Doctor  Hecker,  who  ad 
dressed  her  in  German,  shook  her  head  at 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         101 

Lawyer  Solari,  who  tried  to  make  her  an 
swer  in  Italian ;  and  her  look  always  went 
back  plaintively  to  the  dark,  sinister  face 
of  Laroussel, — Laroussel  who  had  calmly 
taken  a  human  life,  a  wicked  human  life, 
only  the  evening  before. 

— "  Laroussel,  you're  the  only  Creole  in 
this  crowd,"  said  the  captain ;  "  talk  to 
her !  Talk  gumbo  to  her !  .  .  .  I've  no 
doubt  this  child  knows  German  very  well, 
and  Italian  too," — he  added,  maliciously — 
"  but  not  in  the  way  you  gentlemen  pro 
nounce  it !" 

Laroussel  handed  his  rifle  to  a  friend, 
crouched  down  before  the  little  girl,  and 
looked  into  her  face,  and  smiled.  Her 
great  sweet  orbs  shone  into  his  one  mo 
ment,  seriously,  as  if  searching ;  and  then 
.  .  .  she  returned  his  smile.  It  seemed 
to  touch  something  latent  within  the  man, 
something  rare ;  for  his  whole  expression 


102  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

changed ;  and  there  was  a  caress  in  his 
look  and  voice  none  of  the  men  could  have 
believed  possible — as  he  exclaimed : — 

— " Fais  moin  bo,  piti" 

She  pouted  up  her  pretty  lips  and 
kissed  his  black  moustache. 

He  spoke  to  her  again : — 

— "Dis  moin  to  nom,  piti ; — dis  moin 
to  nom,  caterer 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  spoke,  an 
swering  in  her  argent  treble : 

— "  Zouzoune." 

All  held  their  breath.  Captain  Harris 
lifted  his  finger  to  his  lips  to  command 
silence. 

— "  Zouzoune  ?    Zouzoune  qui,  chere  ?" 

— "  Zouzoune,  9a  c'est  moin,  Lili !" 

— "  C'est  pas  tout  to  nom,  Lili ; — dis 
moin,  chere,  to  laut  nom." 

— "  Mo  pas  connin  laut  nom.'1 

— "  Comment  ye  tepele  to  maman,piti?" 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         103 

— "  Maman, — Maman  'Dele." 

— "  Et  comment  ye  te  pele  to  papa, 
chere  ?" 

— "  Papa  Zulien." 

— "  Bon !  Et  comment  to  maman  te 
pele  to  papa  ? — dis  9a  a  moin,  chere  ?" 

The  child  looked  down,  put  a  finger  in 
her  mouth,  thought  a  moment,  and  re 
plied  : — 

-"  Li  pele  li,  <  Cheri ' ;  li  pele  li,  '  Pa- 
poute.' " 

— "  Ai'e,  aie  ! — c'est  tout,  9a? — to  maman 
te  jamain  pele  li  daut'  chose  ?" 

— "  Mo  pas  connin,  moin." 

She  began  to  play  with  some  trinkets 
attached  to  his  watch  chain ; — a  very  small 
gold  compass  especially  impressed  her 
fancy  by  the  trembling  and  flashing  of  its 
tiny  needle,  and  she  murmured,  coax- 
ingly  :— 

— "  Mo  oule    a !    Donnin    a  a  moin." 


IO4  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

He  took  all  possible  advantage  of  the 
situation,  and  replied  at  once : — 

— "  Oui !  mo  va  donnin  toi  9a  si  to  di 
moin  to  laut  nom." 

The  splendid  bribe  evidently  impressed 
her  greatly;  for  tears  rose  to  the  brown 
eyes  as  she  answered : 

— "  Mo  pas  capab  di'  9a ; — mo  pas  capab 
di'  laut  nom Mo  oule ;  mo  pas  capab!" 

Laroussel  explained.  The  child's  name 
was  Lili, — perhaps  a  contraction  of  Eula- 
lie;  and  her  pet  Creole  name  Zouzoune. 
He  thought  she  must  be  the  daughter  of 
wealthy  people;  but  she  could  not,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  tell  her  family  name. 
Perhaps  she  could  not  pronounce  it  well, 
and  was  afraid  of  being  laughed  at :  some 
of  the  old  French  names  were  very  hard 
for  Creole  children  to  pronounce,  so  long 
as  the  little  ones  were  indulged  in  the 
habit  of  talking  the  patois ;  and  after  a 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         105 

certain  age  their  mispronunciations  would 
be  made  fun  of  in  order  to  accustom  them 
to  abandon  the  idiom  of  the  slave-nurses, 
and  to  speak  only  French.  Perhaps, 
again,  she  was  really  unable  to  recall  the 
name :  certain  memories  might  have  been 
blurred  in  the  delicate  brain  by  the  shock 
of  that  terrible  night.  She  said  her  mo 
ther's  name  was  Adele,  and  her  father's 
Julien ;  but  these  were  very  common 
names  in  Louisiana, —  and  could  afford 
scarcely  any  better  clew  than  the  inno 
cent  statement  that  her  mother  used  to 
address  her  father  as  "  dear  "  (Cheri\ — or 
with  the  Creole  diminutive  "little  papa" 
(Papoute\  Then  Laroussel  tried  to  reach 
a  clew  in  other  ways,  without  success.  He  ' 
asked  her  about  where  she  lived, — what 
the  place  was  like  ;  and  she  told  him  about 
fig-trees  in  a  court,  and  galleries,  and  ban 
quettes,  and  spoke  of  a  fatibou, — without" 


io6  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

being  able  to  name  any  street.  He  asked 
her  what  her  father  used  to  do,  and  was 
assured  that  he  did  everything — that  there 
was  nothing  he  could  not  do.  Divine  ab 
surdity  of  childish  faith  ! — infinite  artless- 
ness  of  childish  love !  .  .  .  Probably  the 
little  girl's  parents  had  been  residents  of 
New  Orleans — dwellers  of  the  old  colonial 
quarter, — the  faubourg,  ti\e  faubou\ 

— "  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Captain  Har 
ris,  as  Laroussel  abandoned  his  cross-ex 
amination  in  despair, — "  all  we  can  do  now 
is  to  make  inquiries.  I  suppose  we'd  bet 
ter  leave  the  child  here.  She  is  very 
weak  yet,  and  in  no  condition  to  be  taken 
to  the  city,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  hot 
season ;  and  nobody  could  care  for  her 
any  better  than  she's  being  cared  for  here. 
Then,  again,  seems  to  me  that  as  Feliu 
saved  her  life, — and  that  at  the  risk  of  his 
own, — he's  got  the  prior  claim,  anyhow ; 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.       107 

and  his  wife  is  just  crazy  about  the  child — 
wants  to  adopt  her.  If  we  can  find  her 
relatives  so  much  the  better;  but  I  say, 
gentlemen,  let  them  come  right  here  to 
Feliu,  themselves,  and  thank  him  as  he 
ought  to  be  thanked,  by  God  !  That's 
just  what  I  think  about  it." 

Carmen  understood  the  little  speech  ; — 
all  the  Spanish  charm  of  her  youth  had 
faded  out  years  before  ;  but  in  the  one 
swift  look  of  gratitude  she  turned  upon 
the  captain,  it  seemed  to  blossom  again ; 
— for  that  quick  moment,  she  was  beau 
tiful. 

"  The  captain  is  quite  right,"  observed 
Dr.  Hecker :  "  it  would  be  very  dangerous 
to  take  the  child  away  just  now."  There 
was  no  dissent. 

— "  All  correct,  boys  ?"  asked  the  cap 
tain.  ..."  Well,  we've  got  to  be  going. 
By-by,  Zouzoune !" 


io8  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

But  Zouzoune  burst  into  tears.  Larous- 
sel  was  going  too ! 

— "  Give  her  the  thing,  Laroussel !  she 
gave  you  a  kiss,  anyhow — more  than  she'd 
do  for  me,"  cried  the  captain. 

Laroussel  turned,  detached  the  little 
compass  from  his  watch  chain,  and  gave 
it  to  her.  She  held  up  her  pretty  face 
for  his  farewell  kiss.  . . . 

VI. 

But  it  seemed  fated  that  Feliu's  waif 
should  never  be  identified ; — diligent  in 
quiry  and  printed  announcements  alike 
proved  fruitless.  Sea  and  sand  had  either 
hidden  or  effaced  all  the  records  of  the 
little  world  they  had  engulfed :  the  anni 
hilation  of  whole  families,  the  extinction 
of  races,  had,  in  more  than  one  instance, 
rendered  vain  all  efforts  to  recognize  the 
dead.  It  required  the  subtle  perception 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.       109 

of  long  intimacy  to  name  remains  tume 
fied  and  discolored  by  corruption  and  ex 
posure,  mangled  and  gnawed  by  fishes,  by 
reptiles,  and  by  birds ; — it  demanded  the 
great  courage  of  love  to  look  upon  the 
eyeless  faces  found  sweltering  in  the  black 
ness  of  cypress-shadows,  under  the  low 
palmettoes  of  the  swamps, — where  gorged 
buzzards  started  from  sleep,  or  cotton- 
mouths  uncoiled,  hissing,  at  the  coming 
of  the  searchers.  And  sometimes  all  who 
had  loved  the  lost  were  themselves  among 
the  missing.  The  full  roll-call  of  names 
could  never  be  made  out ; — extraordinary 
mistakes  were  committed.  Men  whom 
the  world  deemed  dead  and  buried  came 
back,  like  ghosts, — to  read  their  own  epi 
taphs. 

.  .  .  Almost  at  the  same  hour  that  La- 
roussel  was  questioning  the  child  in  Creole 
patois,  another  expedition,  searching  for 

8 


no  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

bodies  along  the  coast,  discovered  on  the 
beach  of  a  low  islet  famed  as  a  haunt  of 
pelicans,  the  corpse  of  a  child.  Some 
locks  of  bright  hair  still  adhering  to  the 
skull,  a  string  of  red  beads,  a  white  mus 
lin  dress,  a  handkerchief  broidered  with 
the  initials  "A.  L.  B.," — were  secured  as 
clews ;  and  the  little  body  was  interred 
where  it  had  been  found. 

And,  several  days  before,  Captain  Ho- 
tard,  of  the  relief-boat  Estelle  Brousseaux, 
had  found,  drifting  in  the  open  Gulf  (lati 
tude  26°  43';  longitude  88°  17'),— the 
corpse  of  a  fair-haired  woman,  clinging  to 
a  table.  The  body  was  disfigured  beyond 
recognition :  even  the  slender  bones  of  the 
hands  had  been  stripped  by  the  nibs  of 
the  sea-birds — except  one  finger,  the  third 
of  the  left,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
protected  by  a  ring  of  gold,  as  by  a  charm. 
Graven  within  the  plain  yellow  circlet 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         1 1 1 

was  a  date, — "]UILLET — 1851";  and  the 
names, —  "  A  DELE  +  JULIEN," — separated 
by  a  cross.  The  Estelle  carried  coffins 
that  day :  most  of  them  were  already  full ; 
but  there  was  one  for  Adele. 

Who  was  she  ? — who  was  her  Julien? . . . 
When  the  Estelle  and  many  other  vessels 
had  discharged  their  ghastly  cargoes; — 
when  the  bereaved  of  the  land  had  as 
sembled  as  hastily  as  they  might  for  the 
duty  of  identification  ; — when  memories 
were  strained  almost  to  madness  in  re 
search  of  names,  dates,  incidents — for  the 
evocation  of  dead  words,  resurrection  of 
vanished  days,  recollection  of  dear  prom 
ises, — then,  in  the  confusion,  it  was  be 
lieved  and  declared  that  the  little  corpse 
found  on  the  pelican  island  was  the 
daughter  of  the  wearer  .of  the  wedding- 
ring:  Adele  La  Brierre,  nee  Florane, 
wife  of  Dr.  Julien  La  Brierre,  of  New 


H2  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Orleans,  who  was  numbered  among  the 
missing. 

And  they  brought  dead  Adele  back, — 
up  shadowy  river  windings,  over  linked 
brightnesses  of  lake  and  lakelet,  through 
many  a  green-glimmering  bayou, — to  the 
Creole  city,  and  laid  her  to  rest  some 
where  in  the  old  Saint-Louis  Cemetery. 
And  upon  the  tablet  recording  her  name 
were  also  graven  the  words : — 


Aussi  a  la  mtmoire  dt 

son  mart, 
JULIEN  RAYMOND  LA  BRIERRE, 

nd  a  la  paroisse  St.  Landry, 

le  29  Mai,  MDCCCXX  VIII; 

et  de  leur  fille, 

EULALIE, 
age"e  de  4  ans  et  5  mots, — 

Qui  tons  ptrirent 

dans  la  grande  tempete  quf 

balayd  L'  lie  Derntere,  le 

10  AoAt,  MDCCCL  VI 

...  +  ... 
Priez  pour  eux  ! 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         113 

VII. 

Yet  six  months  afterward  the  face  of 
Julien  La  Brierre  was  seen  again  upon 
the  streets  of  New  Orleans.  Men  started 
at  the  sight  of  him,  as  at  a  spectre  stand 
ing  in  the  sun.  And  nevertheless  the 
apparition  cast  a  shadow.  People  paused, 
approached,  half  extended  a  hand  through 
old  habit,  suddenly  checked  themselves 
and  passed  on, — wondering  they  should 
have  forgotten,  asking  themselves  why 
they  had  so  nearly  made  an  absurd 
mistake. 

It  was  a  February  day, — one  of  those 
crystalline  days  of  our  snowless  Southern 
winter,  when  the  air  is  clear  and  cool,  and 
outlines  sharpen  in  the  light  as  if  viewed 
through  the  focus  of  a  diamond  glass; — 
and  in  that  brightness  Julien  La  Brierre 
perused  his  own  brief  epitaph,  and  gazed 


ii4  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

upon  the  sculptured  name  of  drowned 
Adele.  Only  half  a  year  had  passed  since 
she  was  laid  away  in  the  high  wall  of 
tombs, — in  that  strange  colonial  colum 
barium  where  the  dead  slept  in  rows,  be 
hind  squared  marbles  lettered  in  black  or 
bronze.  Yet  her  resting-place, —  in  the 
highest  range, — already  seemed  old.  Un 
der  our  Southern  sun,  the  vegetation  of 
cemeteries  seems  to  spring  into  being 
spontaneously — to  leap  all  suddenly  into 
luxuriant  life !  Microscopic  mossy  growths 
had  begun  to  mottle  the  slab  that  closed 
her  in ; — over  its  face  some  singular  creep 
er  was  crawling,  planting  tiny  reptile-feet 
into  the  chiselled  letters  of  the  inscrip 
tion  ;  and  from  the  moist  soil  below 
speckled  euphorbias  were  growing  up  to 
her, — and  morning-glories, — and  beautiful 
green  tangled  things  of  which  he  did  not 
know  the  name. 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          115 

And  the  sight  of  the  pretty  lizards,  puff 
ing  their  crimson  pouches  in  the  sun,  or 
undulating  athwart  epitaphs,  and  shifting 
their  color  when  approached,  from  emer 
ald  to  ashen-gray; — the  caravans  of  the 
ants,  journeying  to  and  from  tiny  chinks 
in  the  masonry ; — the  bees  gathering  honey 
from  the  crimson  blossoms  of  the  crete- 
de-coq,  whose  radicles  sought  sustenance, 
perhaps  from  human  dust,  in  the  decay 
of  generations : — all  that  rich  life  of  graves 
summoned  up  fancies  of  Resurrection, 
Nature's  resurrection  -  work  —  wondrous 
transformations  of  flesh,  marvellous  trans 
migration  of  souls  !  .  .  .  From  some  for 
gotten  crevice  of  that  tomb  roof,  which 
alone  intervened  between  her  and  the 
vast  light,  a  sturdy  weed  was  growing. 
He  knew  that  plant,  as  it  quivered  against 
the  blue, — the  chou-gras,  as  Creole  chil 
dren  call  it:  its  dark  berries  form  the 


1 1 6  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

mocking-bird's  favorite  food.  .  .  .  Might 
not  its  roots,  exploring  darkness,  have 
found  some  unfamiliar  nutriment  within  ? 
— might  it  not  be  that  something  of  the 
dead  heart  had  risen  to  purple  and  emer 
ald  life — in  the  sap  of  translucent  leaves, 
in  the  wine  of  the  savage  berries, — to  blend 
with  the  blood  of  the  Wizard  Singer, — to 
lend  a  strange  sweetness  to  the  melody 
of  his  wooing  ?  .  .  . 

. . .  Seldom,  indeed,  does  it  happen  that 
a  man  in  the  prime  of  youth,  in  the  posses 
sion  of  wealth,  habituated  to  comforts  and 
the  elegances  of  life,  discovers  in  one  brief 
week  how  minute  his  true  relation  to  the 
human  aggregate, — how  insignificant  his 
part  as  one  living  atom  of  the  social  or 
ganism.  Seldom,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
eight,  has  one  been  made  able  to  compre 
hend,  through  experience  alone,  that  in 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.          117 

the  vast  and  complex  Stream  of  Being  he 
counts  for  less  than  a  drop  ;  and  that, 
even  as  the  blood  loses  and  replaces  its 
corpuscles,  without  a  variance  in  the  vol 
ume  and  vigor  of  its  current,  so  are  indi. 
vidual  existences  eliminated  and  replaced 
in  the  pulsing  of  a  people's  life,  with  nev 
er  a  pause  in  its  mighty  murmur.  But  all 
this,  and  much  more,  Julien  had  learned 
in  seven  merciless  days — seven  successive 
and  terrible  shocks  of  experience.  The 
enormous  world  had  not  missed  him ;  and 
his  place  therein  was  not  void — society 
had  simply  forgotten  him.  So  long  as  he 
had  moved  among  them,  all  he  knew  for 
friends  had  performed  their  petty  altruis 
tic  roles, — had  discharged  their  small  hu 
man  obligations, — had  kept  turned  toward 
him  the  least  selfish  side  of  their  nature's, 
— had  made  with  him  a  tolerably  equita 
ble  exchange  of  ideas  and  of  favors ;  and 


1 1 8  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

after  his  disappearance  from  their  midst, 
they  had  duly  mourned  for  his  loss — to 
themselves !  They  had  played  out  the 
final  act  in  the  unimportant  drama  of  his 
life :  it  was  really  asking  too  much  to  de 
mand  a  repetition.  .  . .  Impossible  to  de 
ceive  himself  as  to  the  feeling  his  unan 
ticipated  return  had  aroused : — feigned  pity 
where  he  had  looked  for  sympathetic  wel 
come  ;  dismay  where  he  had  expected  sur 
prised  delight;  and,  oftener,^irs  of  resig 
nation,  or  disappointment  ill  disguised, — 
always  insincerity,  politely  masked  or  cold 
ly  bare.  He  had  come  back  to  find  stran 
gers  in  his  home,  relatives  at  law  concern 
ing  his  estate,  and  himself  regarded  as  an 
intruder  among  the  living, — an  unlucky 
guest,  a  revenant.  ...  How  hollow  and 
selfish  a  world  it  seemed !  And  yet  there 
was  love  in  it ;  he  had  been  loved  in  it, 
unselfishly,  passionately,  with  the  love  of 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         119 

father  and  of  mother,  of  wife  and  child 

All  buried  !— all  lost  forever !  .  .  .  Oh  ! 
would  to  God  the  story  of  that  stone  were 
not  a  lie  ! — would  to  kind  God  he  also 
were  dead !  .  .  . 

Evening  shadowed :  the  violet  deepened 
and  prickled  itself  with  stars; — the  sun 
passed  below  the  west,  leaving  in  his  wake 
a  momentary  splendor  of  vermilion  .  .  . 
our  Southern  day  is  not  prolonged  by 
gloaming.  And  Julien's  thoughts  dark 
ened  with  the  darkening,  and  as  swiftly. 
For  while  there  was  yet  light  to  see,  he 
read  another  name  that  he  used  to  know 
— the  name  of  RAMIREZ.  .  .  .  Nacio  en 
Cienfuegos,  isla  de  Cuba.  .  .  .  Wherefore 
born  ? — for  what  eternal  purpose,  Ramirez, 
— in  the  City  of  a  Hundred  Fires  ?  He 
had  blown  out  hij  brains  before  the  sep 
ulchre  of  his  young  wife.  ...  It  was  a  de 
tached  double  vault,  shaped  like  a  huge 


1 20  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

chest,  and  much  dilapidated  already : — 
under  the  continuous  burrowing  of  the 
crawfish  it  had  sunk  greatly  on  one  side, 
tilting  as  if  about  to  fall.  Out  from  its 
zigzag  fissurings  of  brick  and  plaster,  a 
sinister  voice  seemed  to  come : — "  Go  thou 
and  do  likewise  /  .  .  .  Earth  groans  with 
her  burthen  even  now,  —  the  burthen  of 
Man:  she  holds  no  place  for  thee  T 

VIII. 

.  .  .  That  voice  pursued  him  into  the 
darkness  of  his  chilly  room, — haunted  him 
in  the  silence  of  his  lodging.  And  then 
began  within  the  man  that  ghostly  strug 
gle  between  courage  and  despair,  between 
patient  reason  and  mad  revolt,  between 
weakness  and  force,  between  darkness  and 
light,  which  all  sensitive  and  generous 
natures  must  wage  in  their  own  souls  at 
least  once — perhaps  many  times — in  their 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength.         121 

lives.  Memory,  in  such  moments,  plays 
like  an  electric  storm; — all  involuntarily 
he  found  himself  reviewing  his  life. 

Incidents  long  forgotten  came  back 
with  singular  vividness :  he  saw  the  Past 
as  he  had  not  seen  it  while  it  was  the  Pres 
ent; — remembrances  of  home,  recollec 
tions  of  infancy,  recurred  to  him  with  ter 
rible  intensity, — the  artless  pleasures  and 
the  trifling  griefs,  the  little  hurts  and  the 
tender  pettings,  the  hopes  and  the  anxi 
eties  of  those  who  loved  him,  the  smiles 

and  tears  of  slaves And  his  first  Creole 

pony,  a  present  from  his  father  the  day 
after  he  had  proved  himself  able  to  recite 
his  prayers  correctly  in  French,  without 
one  mispronunciation — without  saying 
crasse  for  grace  ; — and  yellow  Michel,  who 
taught  him  to  swim  and  to  fish  lahd  to 
paddle  a  pirogue ; — and  the  bayouu  with 
its  wonder-world  of  turtles  and  birds  and 


122  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

creeping  things ; — and  his  German  tutor, 
who  could  not  pronounce  the/; — and  the 
songs  of  the  cane-fields, — strangely  pleas 
ing,  full  of  quaverings  and  long  plaintive 
notes,  like  the  call  of  the  cranes. . . .  Tou\ 
tod  pays  blanc  /  .  .  .  Afterward  Cama- 
niere  had  leased  the  place; — everything 
must  have  been  changed ;  even  the  songs 
could  not  be  the  same.  Tou\  ton'  pays 
blanc  ! — Dani'e  qui  commande.  .  .  . 

And  then  Paris ;  and  the  university, 
with  its  wild  under-life, — some  debts,  some 
follies ;  and  the  frequent  fond  letters  from 
home  to  which  he  might  have  replied  so 
much  oftener ; — Paris,  where  talent  is  me 
diocrity  ;  Paris,  with  its  thunders  and  its 
splendors  and  its  seething  of  passion; — 
Paris,  supreme  focus  of  human  endeavor, 
with  its  madnesses  of  art,  its  frenzied  striv 
ing  to  express  the  Inexpressible,  its  spas 
modic  strainings  to  clutch  the  Unattain- 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         123 

able,  its  soarings  of  soul-fire  to  the  heaven 
of  the  Impossible.  .  .  . 

What  a  rejoicing  there  was  at  his  re 
turn ! — how  radiant  and  level  the  long 
Road  of  the  Future  seemed  to  open  before 
him ! — everywhere  friends,  prospects,  fe 
licitations.  Then  his  first  serious  love ; — 
and  the  night  of  the  ball  at  St.  Martins- 
ville, — the  vision  of  light !  Gracile  as  a 
palm,  and  robed  at  once  so  simply,  so  ex 
quisitely  in  white,  she  had  seemed  to  him 
the  supreme  realization  of  all  possible 
dreams  of  beauty.  .  .  .  And  his  passionate 
jealousy ;  and  the  slap  from  Laroussel ; 
and  the  humiliating  two-minute  duel  with 
rapiers  in  which  he  learned  that  he  had 
found  his  master.  The  scar  was  deep. 
Why  had  not  Laroussel  killed  him  then  ? 
.  .  .  Not  evil  -  hearted,  Laroussel ; — they 
used  to  salute  each  other  afterward  when 
they  met ;  and  Laroussel's  smile  was  kind- 


1 24  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

ly.     Why  had  he  refrained  from  return 
ing  it  ?    Where  was  Laroussel  now  ? 

For  the  death  of  his  generous  father, 
who  had  sacrificed  so  much  to  reform  him ; 
for  the  death,  only  a  short  while  after,  of 
his  all-forgiving  mother,  he  had  found  one 
sweet  woman  to  console  him  with  her  ten 
der  words,  her  loving  lips,  her  delicious 
caress.  She  had  given  him  Zouzoune, 
the  darling  link  between  their  lives, — Zou 
zoune,  who  waited  each  evening  with  black 
Eglantine  at  the  gate  to  watch  for  his  com 
ing,  and  to  cry  through  all  the  house  like 
a  bird,  "Papa,  lap'e  vini ! — -papa  Zulien 
ape  vini  T  .  .  .  And  once  that  she  had 
made  him  very  angry  by  upsetting  the 
ink  over  a  mass  of  business  papers,  and 
he  had  slapped  her  (could  he  ever  forgive 
himself?)  —  she  had  cried,  through  her 
sobs  of  astonishment  and  pain : — "  To  lai- 
min  moin  ? — to  batt'e  moin  /"  (Thou  lovest 


Out  of  the  Sea's  Strength.         125 

me  ? — thou  beatest  me !)  Next  month  she 
would  have  been  five  years  old.  To  lai- 
min  moin  ? — to  batt'e  moin  /  .  .  . 

A  furious  paroxysm  of  grief  convulsed 
him,  suffocated  him ;  it  seemed  to  him 
that  something  within  must  burst,  must 
break.  He  flung  himself  down  upon  his 
bed,  biting  the  coverings  in  order  to  stifle 
his  outcry,  to  smother  the  sounds  of  his 
despair.  What  crime  had  he  ever  done, 
oh  God  !  that  he  should  be  made  to  suffer 
thus  ? — was  it  for  this  he  had  been  per 
mitted  to  live  ?  had  been  rescued  from  the 
sea  and  carried  round  all  the  world  un 
scathed  ?  Why  should  he  live  to  remem 
ber,  to  suffer,  to  agonize  ?  Was  not  Ra 
mirez  wiser  ? 

How  long  the  contest  within  him  lasted, 
he  never  knew ;  but  ere  it  was  done,  he 
had  become,  in  more  ways  than  one,  a 
changed  man.  For  the  first, — though  not 


126  Chita':  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

indeed  for  the  last  time, — something  of 
the  deeper  and  nobler  comprehension  of 
human  weakness  and  of  human  suffering 
had  been  revealed  to  him, — something  of 
that  larger  knowledge  without  which  the 
ense  of  duty  can  never  be  fully  acquired, 
nor  the  understanding  of  unselfish  good 
ness,  nor  the  spirit  of  tenderness.  The 
suicide  is  not  a  coward ;  he  is  an  egotist. 

A  ray  of  sunlight  touched  his  wet  pil 
low, — awoke  him.  He  rushed  to  the  win 
dow,  flung  the  latticed  shutters  apart,  and 
looked  out. 

Something  beautiful  and  ghostly  filled 
all  the  vistas, — frost-haze ;  and  in  some 
queer  way  the  mist  had  momentarily 
caught  and  held  the  very  color  of  the  sky. 
An  azure  fog  !  Through  it  the  quaint  and 
checkered  street — as  yet  but  half  illumined 
by  the  sun, — took  tones  of  impossible  col- 


Out  of  the  Seas  Strength.         1 2  7 

or;  the  view  paled  away  through  faint 
bluish  tints  into  transparent  purples ; — all 
the  shadows  were  indigo.  How  sweet  the 
morning ! — how  well  life  seemed  worth  liv 
ing  !  Because  the  sun  had  shown  his  face 
through  a  fairy-veil  of  frost !  .  .  . 

Who  was  the  ancient  thinker? — was  it 
Hermes  ? — who  said : — 

"  The  Sun  is  Laughter ;  for  'tis  He  who 
maketh  joyous  the  thoughts  of  men,  and 
gladdeneth  the  infinite  world''  . .  . 


PART   III. 

The  Shadow  of  the  Tide. 


THE  SHADOW  OF   THE   TIDE. 

I. 

CARMEN  found  that  her  little  pet 
had  been  taught  how  to  pray;  for 
each  night  and  morning  when  the  devout 
woman  began  to  make  her  orisons,  the 
child  would  kneel  beside  her,  with  little 
hands  joined,  and  in  a  voice  sweet  and 
clear  murmur  something  she  had  learned 
by  heart.  Much  as  this  pleased  Carmen, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  child's  prayers 
could  not  be  wholly  valid  unless  uttered 
in  Spanish  ; — for  Spanish  was  heaven's 
own  tongue, — la  lengua  de  Dios,  el  idioma 
de  Dios  ;  and  she  resolved  to  teach  her  to 
say  the  Salve  Maria  and  the  Padre  Nues- 
tro  in  Castilian, — also  her  own  favorite 


132   Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

prayer  to  the  Virgin,  beginning  with  the 
words,  "  Madre  santisima,  toda  dulce  y 
hermosa? .  .  . 

So  Conchita — for  a  new  name  had  been 
given  to  her  with  that  terrible  sea-christen 
ing — received  her  first  lessons  in  Spanish ; 
and  she  proved  a  most  intelligent  pupil. 
Before  long  she  could  prattle  to  Feliu ; — 
she  would  watch  for  his  return  of  even 
ings,  and  announce  his  coming  with  "Aqui 
viene  mi  papacito  /" — she  learned,  too, 
from  Carmen,  many  little  caresses  of 
speech  to  greet  him  with.  Feliu's  was 
not  a  joyous  nature ;  he  had  his  dark 
hours,  his  sombre  days  ;  yet  it  was  rarely 
that  he  felt  too  sullen  to  yield  to  the  little 
one's  petting,  when  she  would  leap  up  to 
reach  his  neck  and  to  coax  his  kiss,  with — 
"  Dame  un  beso,  papa  / — asi ; — -y  otro  ! 
otro  !  otro  /"  He  grew  to  love  her  like  his 
own  ; — was  she  not  indeed  his  own,  since 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          133 

he  had  won  her  from  death  ?  And  none 
had  yet  come  to  dispute  his  claim.  More 
and  more,  with  the  passing  of  weeks, 
months,  seasons,  she  became  a  portion  of 
his  life — a  part  of  all  that  he  wrought  for. 
At  the  first,  he  had  had  a  half-formed 
hope  that  the  little  one  might  be  reclaimed 
by  relatives  generous  and  rich  enough  to 
insist  upon  his  acceptance  of  a  handsome 
compensation ;  and  that  Carmen  could 
find  some  solace  in  a  pleasant  visit  to 
Barceloneta.  But  now  he  felt  that  no 
possible  generosity  could  requite  him 
for  her  loss ;  and  with  the  unconscious 
selfishness  of  affection,  he  commenced 
to  dread  her  identification  as  a  great 
calamity. 

It  was  evident  that  she  had  been  brought 
up  nicely.  She  had  pretty  prim  ways  of 
drinking  and  eating,  queer  little  fashions 
of  sitting  in  company,  and  of  addressing 


1 34  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

people.  She  had  peculiar  notions  about 
colors  in  dress,  about  wearing  her  hair; 
and  she  seemed  to  have  already  imbibed 
a  small  stock  of  social  prejudices  not  al 
together  in  harmony  with  the  republican 
ism  of  Viosca's  Point.  Occasional  swarthy 
visitors, — men  of  the  Manilla  settlements, 
— she  spoke  of  contemptuously  as  negues- 
marrons ;  and  once  she  shocked  Carmen 
inexpressibly  by  stopping  in  the  middle 
of  her  evening  prayer,  declaring  that  she 
wanted  to  say  her  prayers  to  a  white  Vir 
gin  ;  Carmen's  Senora  de  Guadalupe  was 
only  a  negra  !  Then,  for  the  first  time, 
Carmen  spoke  so  crossly  to  the  child  as 
to  frighten  her.  But  the  pious  woman's 
heart  smote  her  the  next  moment  for  that 
first  harsh  word ; — and  she  caressed  the 
motherless  one,  consoled  her,  cheered  her, 
and  at  last  explained  to  her — I  know  not 
how  —  something  very  wonderful  about 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          135 

the  little  figurine,  something  that  made 
Chita's  eyes  big  with  awe.  Thereafter 
she  always  regarded  the  Virgin  of  Wax 
as  an  object  mysterious  and  holy. 

And,  one  by  one,  most  of  Chita's  little 
eccentricities  were  gradually  eliminated 
from  her  developing  life  and  thought. 
More  rapidly  than  ordinary  children,  be 
cause  singularly  intelligent,  she  learned 
to  adapt  herself  to  all  the  changes  of  her 
new  environment, — retaining  only  that 
indescribable  something  which  to  an  ex 
perienced  eye  tells  of  hereditary  refine 
ment  of  habit  and  of  mind : — a  natural 
grace,  a  thorough-bred  ease  and  elegance 
of  movement,  a  quickness  and  delicacy 
of  perception. 

She  became  strong  again  and  active^1" 
active  enough  to  play  a  great  deal  on  the 
beach,  when  the  sun  was  not  too  fierce ; 
and  Carmen  made  a  canvas  bonnet  to 


136  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

shield  her  head  and  face.  Never  had  she 
been  allowed  to  play  so  much  in  the  sun 
before ;  and  it  seemed  to  do  her  good, 
though  her  little  bare  feet  and  hands  be 
came  brown  as  copper.  At  first,  it  must 
be  confessed,  she  worried  her  foster-moth 
er  a  great  deal  by  various  queer  misfor 
tunes  and  extraordinary  freaks; — getting 
bitten  by  crabs,  falling  into  the  bayou 
while  in  pursuit  of  "fiddlers,"  or  losing 
herself  at  the  conclusion  of  desperate  ef 
forts  to  run  races  at  night  with  the  moon, 
or  to  walk  to  the  "  end  of  the  world."  If 
she  could  only  once  get  to  the  edge  of 
the  sky,  she  said,  she  "could  climb  up." 
She  wanted  to  see  the  stars,  which  were 
the  souls  of  good  little  children ;  and  she 
knew  that  God  would  let  her  climb  up. 
"Just  what  I  am  afraid  of!" — thought 
Carmen  to  herself ; — "  He  might  let  her 
climb  up, — a  little  ghost !"  But  one  day 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          137 

naughty  Chita  received  a  terrible  lesson, — 
a  lasting  lesson, — which  taught  her  the 
value  of  obedience. 

She  had  been  particularly  cautioned 
not  to  venture  into  a  certain  part  of  the 
swamp  in  the  rear  of  the  grove,  where  the 
weeds  were  very  tall ;  for  Carmen  was 
afraid  some  snake  might  bite  the  child. 
But  Chita's  bird-bright  eye  had  discerned 
a  gleam  of  white  in  that  direction;  and 
she  wanted  to  know  what  it  was.  The 
white  could  only  be  seen  from  one  point, 
behind  the  furthest  house,  where  the 
ground  was  high.  "  Never  go  there,"  said 
Carmen  ;  "  there  is  a  Dead  Man  there, — 
will  bite  you  !"  And  yet,  one  day,  while 
Carmen  was  unusually  busy,  Chita  went 
there. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  settlement,  a 
Spanish  fisherman  had  died ;  and  his  com 
rades  had  built  him  a  little  tomb  with  the 


1 38  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

surplus  of  the  same  bricks  and  other  ma 
terial  brought  down  the  bayou  for  the 
construction  of  Viosca's  cottages.  But 
no  one,  except  perhaps  some  wandering 
duck  hunter,  had  approached  the  sepul 
chre  for  years.  High  weeds  and  grasses 
wrestled  together  all  about  it,  and  render 
ed  it  totally  invisible  from  the  surround 
ing  level  of  the  marsh. 

Fiddlers  swarmed  away  as  Chita  ad 
vanced  over  the  moist  soil,  each  uplifting 
its  single  huge  claw  as  it  sidled  off ; — then 
frogs  began  to  leap  before  her  as  she 
reached  the  thicker  grass; — and  long- 
legged  brown  insects  sprang  showering 
to  right  and  left  as  she  parted  the  tufts 
of  the  thickening  verdure.  As  she  went 
on,  the  bitter-weeds  disappeared ; — jointed 
grasses  and  sinewy  dark  plants  of  a  taller 
growth  rose  above  her  head :  she  was 
almost  deafened  by  the  storm  of  insect 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         139 

shrilling,  and  the  mosquitoes  became  very 
wicked.  All  at  once  something  long  and 
black  and  heavy  wriggled  almost  from 
under  her  naked  feet, — squirming  so  hor 
ribly  that  for  a  minute  or  two  she  could 
not  move  for  fright.  But  it  slunk  away 
somewhere,  and  hid  itself ;  the  weeds  it 
had  shaken  ceased  to  tremble  in  its  wake ; 
and  her  courage  returned.  She  felt  such 
an  exquisite  and  fearful  pleasure  in  the 
gratification  of  that  naughty  curiosity ! 
Then,  quite  unexpectedly — oh  !  what  a 
start  it  gave  her ! — the  solitary  white  ob 
ject  burst  upon  her  view,  leprous  and 
ghastly  as  the  yawn  of  a  cotton-mouth. 
Tombs  ruin  soon  in  Louisiana ; — the  one 
Chita  looked  upon  seemed  ready  to  top 
ple  down.  There  was  a  great  ragged 
hole  at  one  end,  where  wind  and  rain,  and 
perhaps  also  the  burrowing  of  crawfish 
and  of  worms,  had  loosened  the  bricks, 


140  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

and  caused  them  to  slide  out  of  place. 
It  seemed  very  black  inside;  but  Chita 
wanted  to  know  what  was  there.  She 
pushed  her  way  through  a  gap  in  the  thin 
and  rotten  line  of  pickets,  and  through 
some  tall  weeds  with  big  coarse  pink 
flowers;  —  then  she  crouched  down  on 
hands  and  knees  before  the  black  hole, 
and  peered  in.  It  was  not  so  black  in 
side  as  she  had  thought ;  for  a  sunbeam 
slanted  down  through  a  chink  in  the  roof; 
and  she  could  see ! 

A  brown  head — without  hair,  without 
eyes,  but  with  teeth,  ever  so  many  teeth ! 
— seemed  to  laugh  at  her ;  and  close  to  it 
sat  a  Toad,  the  hugest  she  had  ever  seen  ; 
and  the  white  skin  of  his  throat  kept  puff 
ing  out  and  going  in.  And  Chita  scream 
ed  and  screamed,  and  fled  in  wild  terror, — 
screaming  all  the  way,  till  Carmen  ran 
out  to  meet  her  and  carry  her  home. 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          141 

Even  when  safe  in  her  adopted  mother's 
arms,  she  sobbed  with  fright.  To  the 
vivid  fancy  of  the  child  there  seemed  to 
be  some  hideous  relation  between  the 
staring  reptile  and  the  brown  death's-head, 
with  its  empty  eyes,  and  its  nightmare- 
smile. 

The  shock  brought  on  a  fever, — a  fever 
that  lasted  several  days,  and  left  her  very 
weak.  But  the  experience  taught  her  to 
obey,  taught  her  that  Carmen  knew  best 
what  was  for  her  good.  It  also  caused 
her  to  think  a  great  deal.  Carmen  had 
told  her  that  the  dead  people  never  fright 
ened  good  little  girls  who  stayed  at  home. 

— "  Madrecita  Carmen,"  she  asked,  "  is 
my  mamma  dead  ?" 

— " Pobrecita / ...  Yes,  my  angel.  God 
called  her  to  Him, — your  darling  mother." 

— "Madrecita,"  she  asked  again, — her 
young  eyes  growing  vast  with  horror, — 


142   Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

"  is  my  own  mamma  now  like  That  ?"  . . . 
She  pointed  toward  the  place  of  the  white 
gleam,  behind  the  great  trees. 

— "  No,  no,  no  !  my  darling  !"  cried 
Carmen,  appalled  herself  by  the  ghastly 
question,  —  "your  mamma  is  with  the 
dear,  good,  loving  God,  who  lives  in  the 
beautiful  sky, — above  the  clouds,  my  dar 
ling,  beyond  the  sun !" 

But  Carmen's  kind  eyes  were  full  of 
tears;  and  the  child  read  their  meaning. 
He  who  teareth  off  the  Mask  of  the  Flesh 
had  looked  into  her  face  one  unutterable 
moment : — she  had  seen  the  brutal  Truth, 
naked  to  the  bone ! 

Yet  there  came  to  her  a  little  thrill  of 
consolation,  caused  by  the  words  of  the 
tender  falsehood  ;  for  that  which  she  had 
discerned  by  day  could  not  explain  to  her 
that  which  she  saw  almost  nightly  in  her 
slumber.  The  face,  the  voice,  the  form  of 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          143 

her  loving  mother  still  lived  somewhere, — 
could  not  have  utterly  passed  away;  since 
the  sweet  presence  came  to  her  in  dreams, 
bending  and  smiling  over  her,  caressing 
her,  speaking  to  her, — sometimes  gently 
chiding,  but  always  chiding  with  a  kiss. 
And  then  the  child  would  laugh  in  her 
sleep,  and  prattle  in  Creole, — talking  to 
the  luminous  shadow,  telling  the  dead 
mother  all  the  little  deeds  and  thoughts 
of  the  day.  .  .  .  Why  would  God  only  let 
her  come  at  night  ? 

.  .  .  Her  idea  of  God  had  been  first  de 
fined  by  the  sight  of  a  quaint  French  pict 
ure  of  the  Creation, — an  engraving  which 
represented  a  shoreless  sea  under  a  black 
sky,  and  out  of  the  blackness  a  solemn  and 
bearded  gray  head  emerging,  and  a  cloudy 
hand  through  which  stars  glimmered. 
God  was  like  old  Doctor  de  Coulanges, 
who  used  to  visit  the  house,  and  talk  in 


1 44  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

a  voice  like  a  low  roll  of  thunder.  ...  At 
a  later  day,  when  Chita  had  been  told 
that  God  was  "everywhere  at  the  same 
time" — without  and  within,  beneath  and 
above  all  things, — this  idea  became  some 
what  changed.  The  awful  bearded  face, 
the  huge  shadowy  hand,  did  not  fade  from 
her  thought ;  but  they  became  fantasti 
cally  blended  with  the  larger  and  vaguer 
notion  of  something  that  filled  the  world 
and  reached  to  the  stars, — something  di 
aphanous  and  incomprehensible  like  the 
invisible  air,  omnipresent  and  everlasting 
like  the  high  blue  of  heaven.  .  .  . 

II. 

. . .  She  began  to  learn  the  life  of  the 
coast. 

With  her  acquisition  of  another  tongue, 
there  came  to  her  also  the  understanding 
of  many  things  relating  to  the  world  of 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          145 

the  sea.  She  memorized  with  novel  de 
light  much  that  was  told  her  day  by  day 
concerning  the  nature  surrounding  her, 
—many  secrets  of  the  air,  many  of  those 
signs  of  heaven  which  the  dwellers  in 
cities  cannot  comprehend  because  the  at 
mosphere  is  thickened  and  made  stagnant 
above  them — cannot  even  watch  because 
the  horizon  is  hidden  from  their  eyes  by 
walls,  and  by  weary  avenues  of  trees  with 
whitewashed  trunks.  She  learned,  by 
listening,  by  asking,  by  observing  also, 
how  to  know  the  signs  that  foretell  wild 
weather : — tremendous  sunsets,  scuddings 
and  bridgings  of  cloud, — sharpening  and 
darkening  of  the  sea-line, — and  the  shriek 
of  gulls  flashing  to  land  in  level  flight, 
out  of  a  still  transparent  sky, — and  halos 
about  the  moon. 

She  learned  where  the  sea-birds,  with 
white  bosoms  and  brown  wings,  made  their 


146  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

hidden  nests  of  sand,  —  and  where  the 
cranes  waded  for  their  prey, — and  where 
the  beautiful  wild -ducks,  plumaged  in 
satiny  lilac  and  silken  green,  found  their 
food, — and  where  the  best  reeds  grew  to 
furnish  stems  for  Feliu's  red-clay  pipe, — 
and  where  the  ruddy  sea-beans  were  most 
often  tossed  upon  the  shore, — and  how 
the  gray  pelicans  fished  all  together,  like 
men — moving  in  far- extending  semicir 
cles,  beating  the  flood  with  their  wings  to 
drive  the  fish  before  them. 

And  from  Carmen  she  learned  the  fa 
bles  and  the  sayings  of  the  sea, — the  prov 
erbs  about  its  deafness,  its  avarice,  its 
treachery,  its  terrific  power.  —  especially 
one  that  haunted  her  for  all  time  there 
after  :  Si  quieres  aprender  a  orar,  entra 
en  el  mar  (If  thou  wouldst  learn  to  pray, 
go  to  the  sea).  She  learned  why  the  sea 
is  salt, — how  "  the  tears  of  women  made 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         147 

the  waves  of  the  sea," — and  how  the  sea 
has  "  no  friends," — and  how  the  cat's  eyes 
change  with  the  tides. 

What  had  she  lost  of  life  by  her  swift 
translation  from  the  dusty  existence  of 
cities  to  the  open  immensity  of  nature's 
freedom  ?  What  did  she  gain  ? 

Doubtless  she  was  saved  from  many  of 
those  little  bitternesses  and  restraints  and 
disappointments  which  all  well-bred  city 
children  must  suffer  in  the  course  of  their 
training  for  the  more  or  less  factitious  life 
of  society:  —  obligations  to  remain  very 
still  with  every  nimble  nerve  quivering  in 
dumb  revolt ; — the  injustice  of  being  found 
troublesome  and  being  sent  to  bed  early 
for  the  comfort  of  her  elders ; — the  cruel 
necessity  of  straining  her  pretty  eyes,  for 
many  long  hours  at  a  time,  over  grimy 
desks  in  gloomy  school  -  rooms,  though 
birds  might  twitter  and  bright  winds  flut- 


148  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

ter  in  the  trees  without ; — the  austere  con- 
straint  and  heavy  drowsiness  of  warm 
churches,  filled  with  the  droning  echoes 
of  a  voice  preaching  incomprehensible 
things;  —  the  progressively  augmenting 
weariness  of  lessons  in  deportment,  in 
dancing,  in  music,  in  the  impossible  art  of 
keeping  her  dresses  unruffled  and  unsoil- 
ed.  Perhaps  she  never  had  any  reason 
to  regret  all  these. 

She  went  to  sleep  and  awakened  with 
the  wild  birds ; — her  life  remained  as  un 
fettered  by  formalities  as  her  fine  feet  by 
shoes.  Excepting  Carmen's  old  prayer- 
book, — in  which  she  learned  to  read  a  lit 
tle, — her  childhood  passed  without  books, 
— also  without  pictures,  without  dainties, 
without  music,  without  theatrical  amuse 
ments.  But  she  saw  and  heard  and  felt 
much  of  that  which,  though  old  as  the 
heavens  and  the  earth,  is  yet  eternally 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         149 
i 

new  and  eternally  young  with  the  holiness 
of  beauty, — eternally  mystical  and  divine, 
— eternally  weird:  the  unveiled  magnifi 
cence  of  Nature's  moods, — the  perpetual 
poem  hymned  by  wind  and  surge, — the 
everlasting  splendor  of  the  sky. 

She  saw  the  quivering  pinkness  of  wa-       ( 
ters  curled  by  the  breath  of  the  morning — 
under  the  deepening  of  the  dawn — like  a 
far  fluttering  and  scattering  of  rose-leaves 
of  fire ; — 

Saw  the  shoreless,  cloudless,  marvellous 
double-circling  azure  of  perfect  summer 
days — twin  glories  of  infinite  deeps  inter- 
reflected,  while  the  Soul  of  the  World  lay 

*  / 

still,  suffused  with  a  jewel-light,  as  of  va 
porized  sapphire  ;— 

Saw  the  Sea  shift  color,  —  "change 
sheets," — when  the  viewless  Wizard  of  the 
Wind  breathed  upon  its  face,  and  made  it 
green ;— 


1 50  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Saw  the  immeasurable  panics, — noise 
less,  scintillant,  —  which  silver,  summer 
after  summer,  curved  leagues  of  beach 
with  bodies  of  little  fish — the  yearly  mas 
sacre  of  migrating  populations,  nations  of 
sea-trout,  driven  from  their  element  by 
terror ; — and  the  winnowing  of  shark-fins, 
— and  the  rushing  of  porpoises, — and  the 
rising  of  the  grande-ecaille,  like  a  pillar 
of  flame,  —  and  the  diving  and  pitching 
and  fighting  of  the  frigates  and  the  gulls, 
— and  the  armored  hordes  of  crabs  swarm 
ing  out  to  clear  the  slope  after  the  carnage 
and  the  gorging  had  been  done ; — 

Saw  the  Dreams  of  the  Sky, — scudding 
mockeries  of  ridged  foam, — and  shadowy 
stratification  of  capes  and  coasts  and 
promontories  long-drawn-out,  —  and  im 
ageries,  multicolored,  of  mountain  frond- 
age,  and  sierras  whitening  above  sierras, 
—  and  phantom  islands  ringed  around 
with  lagoons  of  glory; — 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         1 5 1 

Saw  the  toppling  and  smouldering  of 
cloud-worlds  after  the  enormous  confla 
gration  of  sunsets, — incandescence  ruin 
ing  into  darkness ;  and  after  it  a  moving 
and  climbing  of  stars  among  the  black 
nesses, — like  searching  lamps ; — 

Saw  the  deep  kindle  countless  ghostly 
candles  as  for  mysterious  night-festival, — 
and  a  luminous  billowing  under  a  black 
sky,  and  effervescences  of  fire,  and  the 
twirling  and  crawling  of  phosphoric 
foam ; — 

Saw  the  mesmerism  of  the  Moon; — saw 
the  enchanted  tides  self -heaped  in  mut 
tering  obeisance  before  her. 

Often  she  heard  the  Music  of  the  Marsh 
through  the  night :  an  infinity  of  flutings 
and  tinklings  made  by  tiny  amphibia, — 
like  the  low  blowing  of  numberless  little 
tin  horns,  the  clanking  of  billions  of  little 
bells  ; — and,  at  intervals,  profound  tones, 


1 5  2   Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

vibrant  and  heavy,  as  of  a  bass-viol — the 
orchestra  of  the  great  frogs !  And  inter 
weaving  with  it  all,  one  continuous  shrill 
ing, — keen  as  the  steel  speech  of  a  saw, — 
the  stridulous  telegraphy  of  crickets. 

But  always, — always,  dreaming  or  awake, 
she  heard  the  huge  blind  Sea  chanting 
that  mystic  and  eternal  hymn,  which  none 
may  hear  without  awe,  which  no  musician 
can  learn ; — 

Heard  the  hoary  Preacher, — El  Prego- 
nador, — preaching  the  ancient  Word,  the 
word  "  as  a  fire,  and  as  a  hammer  that 
breaketh  the  rock  in  pieces," — the  Elohim- 
Word  of  the  Sea !  .  . . 

Unknowingly  she  came  to  know  the 
immemorial  sympathy  of  the  mind  with 
the  Soul  of  the  World, — the  melancholy 
wrought  by  its  moods  of  gray,  the  rev 
erie  responsive  to  its  vagaries  of  mist, 
the  exhilaration  of  its  vast  exultings — 


71te  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         153 

days  of  windy  joy,  hours  of  transfigured 
light. 

She  felt, — even  without  knowing  it, — 
the  weight  of  the  Silences,  the  solemnities 
of  sky  and  sea  in  these  low  regions  where  all 
things  seem  to  dream — waters  and  grasses 
with  their  momentary  wavings, — woods 
gray-webbed  with  mosses  that  drip  and 
drool, — horizons  with  their  delusions  of 
vapor, — cranes  meditating  in  their  marsh 
es, — kites  floating  in  the  high  blue.  .  .  . 
Even  the  children  were  singularly  quiet ; 
and  their  play  less  noisy  —  though  she 
could  not  have  learned  the  difference — 
than  the  play  of  city  children.  Hour  after 
hour,  the  women  sewed  or  wove  in  silence. 
And  the  brown  men, — always  barefooted, 
always  wearing  rough  blue  shirts, — seemed, 
when  they  lounged  about  the  wharf  on 
idle  days,  as  if  they  had  told  each  other 
long  ago  all  they  knew  or  could  ever 


154  Chita     A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

know,  and  had  nothing  more  to  say. 
They  would  stare  at  the  flickering  of  the 
current,  at  the  drifting  of  clouds  and  buz 
zards — seldom  looking  at  each  other,  and 
always  turning  their  black  eyes  again,  in 
a  weary  way,  to  sky  or  sea.  Even  thus 
one  sees  the  horses  and  the  cattle  of  the 
coast,  seeking  the  beach  to  escape  the 
whizzing  flies ; — all  watch  the  long  waves 
rolling  in,  and  sometimes  turn  their  heads 
a  moment  to  look  at  one  another,  but  al 
ways  look  back  to  the  waves  again,  as  if 
wondering  at  a  mystery.  .  .  . 

How  often  she  herself  had  wondered — 
wondered  at  the  multiform  changes  of 
each  swell  as  it  came  in — transformations 
of  tint,  of  shape,  of  motion,  that  seemed 
to  betoken  a  life  infinitely  more  subtle 
than  the  strange  cold  life  of  lizards  and  of 
fishes, — and  sinister,  and  spectral.  Then 
they  all  appeared  to  move  in  order, — ac- 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          155 

cording  to  one  law  or  impulse ; — each  had 
its  own  voice,  yet  all  sang  one  and  the 
same  everlasting  song.  Vaguely,  as  she 
watched  them  and  listened  to  them,  there 
came  to  her  the  idea  of  a  unity  of  will  in 
their  motion,  a  unity  of  menace  in  their 
utterance — the  idea  of  one  monstrous  and 
complex  life!  The  sea  lived:  it  could 
crawl  backward  and  forward ;  it  could 
speak!  —  it  only  feigned  deafness  and 
sightlessness  for  some  malevolent  end. 
Thenceforward  she  feared  to  find  herself 
alone  with  it.  Was  it  not  at  her  that  it 
strove  to  rush,  muttering,  and  showing 
its  white  teeth,  .  .  .  just  because  it  knew 
that  she  was  all  by  herself  ?  .  .  .  Si 
quieres  aprender  a  orar,  entra  en  el  mar  / 
And  Concha  had  well  learned  to  pray. 
But  the  sea  seemed  to  her  the  one  Power 
which  God  could  not  make  to  obey  Him 
as  He  pleased.  Saying  the  creed  one 


1 56  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

day,  she  repeated  very  slowly  the  open 
ing  words,  — "  Creo  en  un  Dios,  padre 
todopoderoso,  Criador  del  cielo  y  de  la 
tierra" — and  paused  and  thought.  Cre 
ator  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ?  "  Madrecita 
Carmen,"  she  asked,  — "  quien  entonces 
hizb  el  mar?"  (who  then  made  the  sea?). 

— "  Dios,  mi  querida,"  answered  Car 
men. — "  God,  my  darling.  ,  .  .  All  things 
were  made  by  Him"  (todas  las  cosas 
fueron  hechas  por  El\ 

Even  the  wicked  Sea !  And  He  had 
said  unto  it :  "  Thus  far,  and  no  farther." 
.  .  .  Was  that  why  it  had  not  overtaken 
and  devoured  her  when  she  ran  back  in 
fear  from  the  sudden  reaching  out  of  its 
waves?  Thus  far. .  .  .?  But  there  were 
times  when  it  disobeyed — when  it  rushed 
further,  shaking  the  world !  Was  it  be 
cause  God  was  then  asleep — could  not 
hear,  did  not  see,  until  too  late  ? 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         157 

And  the  tumultuous  ocean  terrified  her 
more  and  more :  it  filled  her  sleep  with 
enormous  nightmare ; — it  came  upon  her 
in  dreams,  mountain-shadowing,  —  hold 
ing  her  with  its  spell,  smothering  her  pow 
er  of  outcry,  heaping  itself  to  the  stars. 

Carmen  became  alarmed ; — she  feared 
that  the  nervous  and  delicate  child  might 
die  in  one  of  those  moaning  dreams  out 
of  which  she  had  to  arouse  her,  night 
after  night.  But  Feliu,  answering  her 
anxiety  with  one  of  his  favorite  proverbs, 
suggested  a  heroic  remedy : — 

— "  The  world  is  like  the  sea :  those  who 
do  not  know  how  to  swim  in  it  are 
drowned  ; — and  the  sea  is  like  the  world," 
he  added.  ..."  Chita  must  learn  to  swim !" 

And  he  found  the  time  to  teach  her, 
Each  morning,  at  sunrise,  he  took  her 
into  the  water.  She  was  less  terrified 
the  first  time  than  Carmen  thought  she 


158  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

would  be ; — she  seemed  to  feel  confidence 
in  Feliu;  although  she  screamed  piteous- 
ly  before  her  first  ducking  at  his  hands. 
His  teaching  was  not  gentle.  He  would 
carry  her  out,  perched  upon  his  shoulder, 
until  the  water  rose  to  his  own  neck ;  and 
there  he  would  throw  her  from  him,  and 
let  her  struggle  to  reach  him  again  as 
best  she  could.  The  first  few  mornings 
she  had  to  be  pulled  out  almost  at  once ; 
but  after  that  Feliu  showed  her  less 
mercy,  and  helped  her  only  when  he  saw 
she  was  really  in  danger.  He  attempted 
no  other  instruction  until  she  had  learned 
that  in  order  to  save  herself  from  being 
half  choked  by  the  salt  water,  she  must 
not  scream ;  and  by  the  time  she  became 
habituated  to  these  austere  experiences, 
she  had  already  learned  by  instinct  alone 
how  to  keep  herself  afloat  for  a  while, 
how  to  paddle  a  little  with  her  hands. 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         159 

Then  he  commenced  to  train  her  to  use 
them, — to  lift  them  well  out  and  throw 
them  forward  as  if  reaching,  to  dip  them 
as  the  blade  of  an  oar  is  dipped  at  an 
angle,  without  loud  splashing; — and  he 
showed  her  also  how  to  use  her  feet.  She 
learned  rapidly  and  astonishingly  well. 
In  less  than  two  months  Feliu  felt  really 
proud  at  the  progress  made  by  his  tiny 
pupil :  it  was  a  delight  to  watch  her  lift 
ing  her  slender  arms  above  the  water  in 
swift,  easy  curves,  with  the  same  fine 
grace  that  marked  all  her  other  natural 
motions.  Later  on  he  taught  her  not  to 
fear  the  sea  even  when  it  growled  a  lit 
tle, — how  to  ride  a  swell,  how  to  face  a 
breaker,  how  to  dive.  She  only  needed 
practice  thereafter;  and  Carmen,  who 
could  also  swim,  finding  the  child's  health 
improving  marvellously  under  this  new 
discipline,  took  good  care  that  Chita 


1 60  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

should  practise  whenever  the  mornings 
were  not  too  cold,  or  the  water  too  rough. 
With  the  first  thrill  of  delight  at  find 
ing  herself  able  to  glide  over  the  water  un 
assisted,  the  child's  superstitious  terror  of 
the  sea  passed  away.  Even  for  the  adult 
there  are  few  physical  joys  keener  than 
the  exultation  of  the  swimmer; — how 
much  greater  the  same  glee  as  newly  felt 
by  an  imaginative  child, — a  child,  whose 
vivid  fancy  can  lend  unutterable  value  to 
the  most  insignificant  trifles,  can  trans 
form  a  weed-patch  to  an  Eden  !  ...  Of  her 
own  accord  'she  would  ask  for  her  morn 
ing  bath,  as  soon  as  she  opened  her  eyes ; 
— it  even  required  some  severity  to  pre 
vent  her  from  remaining  in  the  water  too 
long.  The  sea  appeared  to  her  as  some 
thing  that  had  become  tame  for  her 
sake,  something  that  loved  her  in  a  huge 
rough  way;  a  tremendous  playmate, whom 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         161 

she  no  longer  feared  to  see  come  bound 
ing  and  barking  to  lick  her  feet.  And, 
little  by  little,  she  also  learned  the  won 
derful  healing  and  caressing  power  of 
the  monster,  whose  cool  embrace  at  once 
dispelled  all  drowsiness,  feverishness, 
weariness, — even  after  the  sultriest  nights 
when  the  air  had  seemed  to  burn,  and  the 
mosquitoes  had  filled  the  chamber  with  a 
sound  as  of  water  boiling  in  many  kettles. 
And  on  mornings  when  the  sea  was  in 
too  wicked  a  humor  to  be  played  with, 
how  she  felt  the  loss  of  her  loved  sport, 
and  prayed  for  calm !  Her  delicate  con 
stitution  changed ; — the  soft,  pale  flesh  ^ 
became  firm  and  brown,  the  meagre  limbs 
rounded  into  robust  symmetry,  the  thin 
cheeks  grew  peachy  with  richer  life ;  for 
the  strength  of  the  sea  had  entered  into 

/   *" 

her;  the  sharp  breath  of  the  sea  had  re-  v 
newed  and  brightened  her  young  blood / 


1 62  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

.  .  .  Thou  primordial  Sea,  the  awfulness 
of  whose  antiquity  hath  stricken  all 
mythology  dumb; — thou  most  wrinkled 
living  Sea,  the  millions  of  whose  years 
outnumber  even  the  multitude  of  thy 
hoary  motions;  —  thou  omniform  and 
most  mysterious  Sea,  mother  of  the  mon 
sters  and  the  gods, — whence  thine  eter 
nal  youth  ?  Still  do  thy  waters  hold  the 
infinite  thrill  of  that  Spirit  which  brood 
ed  above  their  face  in  the  Beginning ! — 
still  is  thy  quickening  breath  an  elixir 
unto  them  that  flee  to  thee  for  life, — like 
the  breath  of  young  girls,  like  the  breath 
of  children,  prescribed  for  the  senescent 
by  magicians  of  old, — prescribed  unto 
weazened  elders  in  the  books  of  the 
Wizards. 

III. 

. . .  Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-seven ; 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         163 

— midsummer  in  the  pest-smitten  city  of 
New  Orleans. 

Heat  motionless  and  ponderous.  The 
steel-blue  of  the  sky  bleached  from  the 
furnace-circle  of  the  horizon ; — the  luke 
warm  river  ran  yellow  and  noiseless  as  a 
torrent  of  fluid  wax.  Even  sounds  seem 
ed  blunted  by  the  heaviness  of  the  air ; — 
the  rumbling  of  wheels,  the  reverberation 
of  footsteps,  fell  half-toned  upon  the  ear, 
like  sounds  that  visit  a  dozing  brain. 

Daily,  almost  at  the  same  hour,  the  con 
tinuous  sense  of  atmospheric  oppression 
became  thickened ; — a  packed  herd  of  low- 
bellying  clouds  lumbered  up  from  the 
Gulf ;  crowded  blackly  against  the  sun ; 
flickered,  thundered,  and  burst  in  torren 
tial  rain — tepid,  perpendicular — and  van 
ished  utterly  away.  Then,  more  furiously 
than  before,  the  sun  flamed  down  ; — roofs 
and  pavements  steamed ;  the  streets  seem- 


1 64  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

ed  to  smoke;  the  air  grew  suffocating 
with  vapor;  and  the  luminous  city  filled 
with  a  faint,  sickly  odor, — a  stale  smell,  as 
of  dead  leaves  suddenly  disinterred  from 
wet  mould, — as  of  grasses  decomposing 
after  a  flood.  Something  saffron  speckled 
the  slimy  water  of  the  gutters ;  sulphur 
some  called  it ;  others  feared  even  to  give 
it  a  name !  Was  it  only  the  wind-blown 
pollen  of  some  innocuous  plant?  I  do 
not  know;  but  to  many  it  seemed  as  if 
the  Invisible  Destruction  were  scattering 
visible  seed ! . . .  Such  were  the  days ;  and 
each  day  the  terror-stricken  city  offered 
up  its  hecatomb  to  death ;  and  the  faces 
of  all  the  dead  were  yellow  as  flame ! 

"DECEDE— ;"    "DECEDEE—  ;"    "  FALLE- 

cio;"— "DiED."  ...  On  the  door-posts, 
the  telegraph-poles,  the  pillars  of  veran 
das,  the  lamps,  —  over  the  government 
letter-boxes, — everywhere  glimmered  the 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         165 

white  annunciations  of  death.  All  the 
city  was  spotted  with  them.  And  lime 
was  poured  into  the  gutters;  and  huge 
purifying  fires  were  kindled  after  sun 
set. 

The  nights  began  with  a  black  heat ; — 
there  were  hours  when  the  acrid  air  seem 
ed  to  ferment  for  stagnation,  and  to  burn 
the  bronchial  tubing ; — then,  toward  morn 
ing,  it  would  grow  chill  with  venomous 
vapors,  with  morbific  dews, — till  the  sun 
came  up  to  lift  the  torpid  moisture,  and  to 
fill  the  buildings  with  oven-glow.  And 
the  interminable  procession  of  mourners 
and  hearses  and  carriages  again  began  to 
circulate  between  the  centres  of  life  and 
of  death  ; — and  long  trains  and  steamships 
rushed  from  the  port,  with  heavy  burden 
of  fugitives. 

Wealth  might  flee ;  yet  even  in  flight 
there  was  peril.  Men,  who  might  have 


1 66  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

been  saved  by  the  craft  of  experienced 
nurses  at  home,  hurriedly  departed  in  ap 
parent  health,  unconsciously  carrying  in 
their  blood  the  toxic  principle  of  a  malady 
unfamiliar  to  physicians  of  the  West  and 
North ; — and  they  died  upon  their  way, 
by  the  road-side,  by  the  river-banks,  in 
woods,  in  deserted  stations,  on  the  cots  of 
quarantine  hospitals.  Wiser  those  who 
sought  refuge  in  the  purity  of  the  pine 
forests,  or  in  those  near  Gulf  Islands, 
whence  the  bright  sea-breath  kept  ever 
sweeping  back  the  expanding  poison  into 
the  funereal  swamps,  into  the  misty  low 
lands.  The  watering-resorts  became  over 
crowded  ; — then  the  fishing  villages  were 
thronged, — at  least  all  which  were  easy  to 
reach  by  steamboat  or  by  lugger.  And 
at  last,  even  Viosca's  Point, — remote  and 
unfamiliar  as  it  was, — had  a  stranger  to 
shelter:  a  good  old  gentleman  named 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         167 

Edwards,  rather  broken  down  in  health 
— who  came  as  much  for  quiet  as  for  sea- 
air,  and  who  had  been  warmly  recom 
mended  to  Feliu  by  Captain  Harris. 
For  some  years  he  had  been  troubled  by 
a  disease  of  the  heart. 

Certainly  the  old  invalid  could  not  have 
found  a  more  suitable  place  so  far  as  rest 
and  quiet  were  concerned.  The  season 
had  early  given  such  little  promise  that 
several  men  of  the  Point  betook  them 
selves  elsewhere ;  and  the  aged  visitor  had 
two  or  three  vacant  cabins  from  among 
which  to  sel  ect  a  dwelling-place.  He  chose 
to  occupy  the  most  remote  of  all,  which 
Carmen  furnished  for  him  with  a  cool 
moss  bed  and  some  necessary  furniture, — 
including  a  big  wooden  rocking-chair.  It 
seemed  to  him  very  comfortable  thus.  He 
took  his  meals  with  the  family,  spent  most 
of  the  day  in  his  own  quarters,  spoke  very 


1 68  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island, 

little,  and  lived  so  unobtrusively  and  in 
conspicuously  that  his  presence  in  the  set 
tlement  was  felt  scarcely  more  than  that 
of  some  dumb  creature, — some  domestic 
animal, — some  humble  pet  whose  relation 
to  the  family  is  only  fully  comprehended 
after  it  has  failed  to  appear  for  several 
days  in  its  accustomed  place  of  patient 
waiting, — and  we  know  that  it  is  dead. 

IV. 

Persistently  and  furiously,  at  half-past 
two  o'clock  of  an  August  morning,  Spari- 
cio  rang  Dr.  La  Brierre's  night-bell.  He 
had  fifty  dollars  in  his  pocket,  and  a  letter 
to  deliver.  He  was  to  earn  another  fifty 
dollars — deposited  in  Feliu's  hands, — by 
bringing  the  Doctor  to  Viosca's  Point.  He 
had  risked  his  life  for  that  money, — and 
was  terribly  in  earnest. 

Julien  descended  in  his  under-clothing, 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         169 

and  opened  the  letter  by  the  light  of  the 
hall  lamp.  It  enclosed  a  check  for  a  larg 
er  fee  than  he  had  ever  before  received, 
and  contained  an  urgent  request  that  he 
would  at  once  accompany  Sparicio  to  Vi- 
osca's  Point, — as  the  sender  was  in  hour 
ly  danger  of  death.  The  letter,  penned 
in  a  long,  quavering  hand,  was  signed, — 
"  Henry  Edwards? 

His  father's  dear  old  friend!  Julien 
could  not  refuse  to  go, — though  he  feared 
it  was  a  hopeless  case.  Angina  pectoris, 
— and  a  third  attack  at  seventy  years  of 
age !  Would  it  even  be  possible  to  reach 
the  sufferer's  bedside  in  time  ?  "  Due  gi- 
orno, — con  vento" — said  Sparicio.  Still, 
he  must  go  ;  and  at  once.  It  was  Friday 
morning; — might  reach  the  Point  Satur 
day  night,  with  a  good  wind He  roused 

his  housekeeper,  gave  all  needful  instruc 
tions,  prepared  his  little  medicine-chest; 


1 70  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

— and  long  before  the  first  rose-gold  fire 
of  day  had  flashed  to  the  city  spires,  he 
was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  in 
the  tiny  cabin  of  a  fishing-sloop. 

.  .  .  For  eleven  years  Julien  had  devoted 
himself,  heart  and  soul,  to  the  exercise  of 
that  profession  he  had  first  studied  rather 
as  a  polite  accomplishment  than  as  a  fut 
ure  calling.  In  the  unselfish  pursuit  of 
duty  he  had  found  the  only  possible  con 
solation  for  his  irreparable  loss  ;  and  when 
the  war  came  to  sweep  away  his  wealth, 
he  entered  the  struggle  valorously,  not  to 
strive  against  men,  but  to  use  his  science 
against  death.  After  the  passing  of  that 
huge  shock,  which  left  all  the  imposing 
and  splendid  fabric  of  Southern  feudalism 
wrecked  forever,  his  profession  stood  him 
in  good  stead; — he  found  himself  not  only 
able  to  supply  those  personal  wants  he 
cared  to  satisfy,  but  also  to  alleviate  the 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         1 7 1 

misery  of  many  whom  he  had  known  in 
days  of  opulence; — the  princely  misery 
that  never  doffed  its  smiling  mask,  though 
living  in  secret,  from  week  to  week,  on 
bread  and  orange-leaf  tea;  —  the  misery 
that  affected  condescension  in  accepting 
an  invitation  to  dine, — staring  at  the  face 
of  a  watch  (refused  by  the  Mont-de-Piete) 
with  eyes  half  blinded  by  starvation ; — the 
misery  which  could  afford  but  one  robe  for 
three  marriageable  daughters, — one  plain 
dress  to  be  worn  in  turn  by  each  of  them, 
on  visiting  days ;  —  the  pretty  misery  — 
young,  brave,  sweet, — asking  for  a  "treat" 
of  cakes  too  jocosely  to  have  its  asking 
answered, — laughing  and  coquetting  with 
its  well-fed  wooers,  and  crying  for  hunger 
after  they  were  gone.  Often  and  often, 
his  heart  had  pleaded  against  his  purse 
for  such  as  these,  and  won  its  case  in  the 
silent  courts  of  Self.  But  ever  mysteri- 


172  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

ously  the  gift  came, — sometimes  as  if  from 
the  hand  of  a  former  slave ;  sometimes  as 
from  a  remorseful  creditor,  ashamed  to 
write  his  name.  Only  yellow  Victorine 
knew ;  but  the  Doctor's  housekeeper  nev 
er  opened  those  sphinx-lips  of  hers,  until 
years  after  the  Doctor's  name  had  disap 
peared  from  the  City  Directory.  .  .  . 

He  had  grown  quite  thin, — a  little  gray. 
The  epidemic  had  burthened  him  with 
responsibilities  too  multifarious  and  pon 
derous  for  his  slender  strength  to  bear. 
The  continual  nervous  strain  of  abnor 
mally  protracted  duty,  the  perpetual  inter 
ruption  of  sleep,  had  almost  prostrated 
even  his  will.  Now  he  only  hoped  that, 
during  this  brief  absence  from  the  city, 
he  might  find  renewed  strength  to  do  his 
terrible  task. 

Mosquitoes  bit  savagely;  and  the  heat 
became  thicker; — and  there  was  yet  no 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         173 

wind.  Sparicio  and  his  hired  boy  Carmelo 
had  been  walking  backward  and  forward 
for  hours  overhead,  —  urging  the  vessel 
yard  by  yard,  with  long  poles,  through 
the  slime  of  canals  and  bayous.  With  ev 
ery  heavy  push,  the  weary  boy  would  sigh 
out,  —  "  Santo  Antonio  !  —  Santo  Anto 
nio  /"  Sullen  Sparicio  himself  at  last  burst 
into  vociferations  of  ill-humor:  —  "Santo 
Antonio?  —  Ah!  santissimu  e  santu  di- 
avulu  /  .  .  .  Sacramentu  pcescite  vegnu  un 
asidente  !  —  malidittu  lu  Signuri  T  All 
through  the  morning  they  walked  and 
pushed,  trudged  and  sighed  and  swore ; 
and  the  minutes  dragged  by  more  wearily 
than  the  shuffling  of  their  feet.  "  Manag- 
gia  Cristo  co  tutta  a  croce  /"  ..."  Santis- 
simu  e  santu  diavulu  /  /"  .  .  . 

But  as  they  reached  at  last  the  first  of 
the  broad  bright  lakes,  the  heat  lifted,  the 
breeze  leaped  up,  the  loose  sail  flapped 


1 74  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

and  filled;  and,  bending  graciously  as  a 
skater,  the  old  San  Marco  began  to  shoot 
in  a  straight  line  over  the  blue  flood. 
Then,  while  the  boy  sat  at  the  tiller,  Spa- 
ricio  lighted  his  tiny  charcoal  furnace  be 
low,  and  prepared  a  simple  meal,  —  deli 
cious  yellow  macaroni,  flavored  with  goats' 
cheese ;  some  fried  fish,  that  smelled  ap- 
petizingly ;  and  rich  black  coffee,  of  Ori 
ental  fragrance  and  thickness.  Julien 
ate  a  little,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  again. 
This  time  his  rest  was  undisturbed  by  the 
mosquitoes ;  and  when  he  woke,  in  the 
cooling  evening,  he  felt  almost  refreshed. 
The  San  Marco  was  flying  into  Barataria 
Bay.  Already  the  lantern  in  the  light 
house  tower  had  begun  to  glow  like  a  lit 
tle  moon ;  and  right  on  the  rim  of  the  sea, 
a  vast  and  vermilion  sun  seemed  to  rest 
his  chin.  Gray  pelicans  came  flapping 
around  the  mast; — sea-birds  sped  hurtling 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         175 

by,  their  white  bosoms  rose-flushed  by  the 
western  glow.  .  .  .  Again  Sparicio's  little 
furnace  was  at  work,  —  more  fish,  more 
macaroni,  more  black  coffee ;  also  a 
square-shouldered  bottle  of  gin  made  its 
appearance.  Julien  ate  less  sparingly  at 
this  second  meal ;  and  smoked  a  long  time 
on  deck  with  Sparicio,  who  suddenly  be 
came  very  good-humored,  and  chatted  vol 
ubly  in  bad  Spanish,  and  in  much  worse 
English.  Then  while  the  boy  took  a  few 
hours'  sleep,  the  Doctor  helped  delight 
edly  in  manoeuvring  the  little  vessel.  He 
had  been  a  good  yachtsman  in  other  years; 
and  Sparicio  declared  he  would  make  a 
good  fisherman.  By  midnight  the  San 
Marco  began  to  run  with  a  long,  swinging 
gait; — she  had  reached  deep  water.  Ju 
lien  slept  soundly ;  the  steady  rocking  of 
the  sloop  seemed  to  soothe  his  nerves. 
— "  After  all,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as 


1 76  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

he  rose  from  his  little  bunk  next  morn* 
ing, — "something  like  this  is  just  what  I 
needed."  .  .  .  The  pleasant  scent  of  hot 
coffee  greeted  him ; — Carmelo  was  hand 
ing  him  the  tin  cup  containing  it,  down 
through  the  hatchway.  After  drinking  it 
he  felt  really  hungry ; — he  ate  more  maca 
roni  than  he  had  ever  eaten  before.  Then, 
while  Sparicio  slept,  he  aided  Carmelo; 
and  during  the  middle  of  the  day  he  rest 
ed  again.  He  had  not  had  so  much  un 
interrupted  repose  for  many  a  week.  He 
fancied  he  could  feel  himself  getting 
strong.  At  supper-time  it  seemed  to  him 
he  could  not  get  enough  to  eat, — although 
there  was  plenty  for  everybody. 

All  day  long  there  had  been  exactly 
the  same  wave-crease  distorting  the  white 
shadow  of  the  San  Marcos  sail  upon  the 
blue  water; — all  day  long  they  had  been 
skimming  over  the  liquid  level  of  a  world 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          177 

so  jewel-blue  that  the  low  green  ribbon- 
strips  of  marsh  land,  the  far-off  fleeing 
lines  of  pine -yellow  sand  beach,  seemed 
flaws  or  breaks  in  the  perfected  color  of 
the  universe ; — all  day  long  had  the  cloud 
less  sky  revealed  through  all  its  exquisite 
transparency  that  inexpressible  tenderness 
which  no  painter  and  no  poet  can  ever  re- 
image, — that  unutterable  sweetness  which 
no  art  of  man  may  ever  shadow  forth, 
and  which  none  may  ever  comprehend, — 
though  we  feel  it  to  be  in  some  strange 
way  akin  to  the  luminous  and  unspeakable 
charm  that  makes  us  wonder  at  the  eyes 
of  a  woman  when  she  loves. 

Evening  came ;  and  the  great  dominant 
celestial  tone  deepened; — the  circling  ho 
rizon  filled  with  ghostly  tints, — spectral 
greens  and  grays,  and  pearl -lights  and 
fish-colors.  .  .  .  Carmelo,  as  he  crouched 
at  the  tiller,  was  singing,  in  a  low,  clear 


178  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

alto,  some  tristful  little  melody.  Over  the 
sea,  behind  them,  lay,  black -stretching,  a 
long  low  arm  of  island -shore; — before 
them  flamed  the  splendor  of  sun -death; 
they  were  sailing  into  a  mighty  glory,— 
into  a  vast  and  awful  light  of  gold. 

Shading  his  vision  with  his  fingers, 
Sparicio  pointed  to  the  long  lean  limb  of 
land  from  which  they  were  fleeing,  and 
said  to  La  Brierre: — 

— "  Look-a,  Doct-a !     Last-a  Islari  /" 

Julien  knew  it ; — he  only  nodded  his 
head  in  reply,  and  looked  the  other  way, 
— into  the  glory  of  God.  Then,  wish 
ing  to  divert  the  fisherman's  attention  to 
another  theme,  he  asked  what  was  Car- 
melo  singing.  Sparicio  at  once  shouted 
to  the  lad :— 

— "  Ha ! .  .  .  ho  !  Carmelo ! — Santu  dia- 
vulu  /  .  .  .  .  Sing-a  loud-a !  Doct-a  lik-a ! 
Sing-a !  sing !  I" "He  sing-a  nicee," — 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         1 79 

added  the  boatman,  with  his  peculiar  dark 
smile.  And  then  Carmelo  sang,  loud  and 
clearly,  the  song  he  had  been  singing  be 
fore, — one  of  those  artless  Mediterranean 
ballads,  full  of  caressing  vowel-sounds,  and 
young  passion,  and  melancholy  beauty : — 

"  M'  ama  ancor,  belta  fulgente, 
Come  tu  m'  amasti  allor; — 
Ascoltar  non  det  gente, 

Solo  inter roga  il  tuo  cor".  .  . 

— "  He  sing-a  nicee, — mucha  bueno  !" 
murmured  the  fisherman.  And  then,  sud 
denly, — with  a  rich  and  splendid  basso 
that  seemed  to  thrill  every  fibre  of  the 
planking, — Sparicio  joined  in  the  song : — 

" M*  ama  pur  d'  amore  eterno, 

Ne  delltto  sembri  a  te  ; 

T'  assicuro  che  I'  inferno 

Una  favola  sol  e.".  .  . 

^ 

All  the  roughness  of  the  man  was  gone ! 
To  Julien's  startled  fancy,  the  fishers  had 


l8o  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island 

ceased  to  be ; — lo !  Carmelo  was  a  princely 
page  ;  Sparicio,  a  king  !  How  perfectly 
their  voices  married  together ! — they  sang 
with  passion,  with  power,  with  truth,  with 
that  wondrous  natural  art  which  is  the 
birthright  of  the  rudest  Italian  soul.  And 
the  stars  throbbed  out  in  the  heaven ; 
and  the  glory  died  in  the  west;  and  the 
night  opened  its  heart ;  and  the  splendor 
of  the  eternities  fell  all  about  them.  Still 
they  sang;  and  the  San  Marco  sped  on 
through  the  soft  gloom,  ever  slightly 
swerved  by  the  steady  blowing  of  the 
southeast  wind  in  her  sail ; — always  wear 
ing  the  same  crimpling-frill  of  wave-spray 
about  her  prow, — always  accompanied  by 
the  same  smooth-backed  swells, — always 
spinning  out  behind  her  the  same  long 
trail  of  interwoven  foam.  And  Julien 
looked  up.  Ever  the  night  thrilled  more 
and  more  with  silent  twinklings; — more 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         181 

and  more  multitudinously  lights  pointed 
in  the  eternities ; — the  Evening  Star  q 
ered  like  a  great  drop  of  liquid  white  fire 
ready  to  fall; — Vega  flamed  as  a  pharos 
lighting  the  courses  ethereal, — to  guide 
the  sailing  of  the  suns,  and  the  swarming 
of  fleets  of  worlds.  Then  the  vast  sweet 
ness  of  that  violet  night  entered  into  his 
blood, — filled  him  with  that  awful  joy,  so 
near  akin  to  sadness,  which  the  sense  of 
the  Infinite  brings, — when  one  feels  the 
poetry  of  the  Most  Ancient  and  Most  Ex 
cellent  of  Poets,  and  then  is  smitten  at 
once  with  the  contrast  -  thought  of  the 
sickliness  and  selfishness  of  Man, — of  the 
blindness  and  brutality  of  cities,  where- 
into  the  divine  blue  light  never  purely 
comes,  and  the  sanctification  of  the  Si 
lences  never  descends  .  .  .  furious  cities, 
walled  away  from  heaven.  .  .  .  Oh !  if  one 
could  only  sail  on  thus  always,  always 


... 


(ill  Onpjl       '.IK    I  I      .1       III--  III  |  hi  (  Ml"  li          ||(    h      .1 

••l.n  pi  ml  I.  -I  \  lnl<  I  hvl.l.  .iii.l  IK  .n  S|M 
ii«  i..  .in. I  <  .mm  I..  MI,--  ,  vrn  llliill^h  i! 
wrti  Id.  n i,  |,,d\  .il\\  ,i\  .,  .il\\  .i\  -,  (he 

'Jill  1 1C        <  >l  I-  •     ' 

.  .  "S<  N...  I  ><H  I  .,!  I.M.l,  .,  «,n!  |"  |,, 
lirn  lirnl  clown,  .r  I  !>•  I  >\\-  lutmn,  Intnrnc'tl, 
'•\\  "ir. •  iivri  lir.  IK  .i<  1  I  IK  .'>.;',  ,//,/;,  ,' 

W.I      iMiisKl,,,..-    Mil.)  -.|K.M  ,        IK  .i,im-.-    |,.|    hci 
hotur         '  'i  '.n  n  1 1  >   1 1 1 1 1  » I   .1    1 1 1 1-.  •  *     t  t  u  K  1 1  -,|  K  1 1 
llOlN   (In     (I,  i  1  ,    I'll!    il    in    In  .   h|>       (tiled    In 
«lrcp   liiii1.1    ,  .in.!    lliiiiv    I»N!    IN!«»    lln     Niphl 

(Initt       .1    profound,  ind  1 1 1 1 1  K  1 1 1 ,   IMMUN 

NK.  •    In  n  N   l<  me          .A    Nil  i  in  I  c    |  '.i1  '.«<  |          I   IK   n 

'•     f  '"  '     1  I  \        I  .  I  I  I  I  I  ,     .  I  • .      .IN      ((lit*      i  I  (  1 1  N       \  C  I  \        Lit 

.iw.iy,  .1   Iliplr  I  >li  •  \\  1 1 1-.-   tcspondcd 

.And    .1     IOIK.-     piuplc     Ni.r.1.     liMiinrti    .mil 

••u  died  itid  i  •.!••  lil .  IK  i- •  III.  ncd,  .Ipplo.U  lied 
l.ind     .ind     li.  <        I-I.K  K     -.|».i,l,.\\  tn-.-.    .uul 

ll-'.iil    •     lli.ll      •\\lii.-;  I   IK        '...    .        ).'.;-..• 

j-didcd  into  .\  l».i\mi,      nndci   .1  ln-.-li  \\lnil 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         183 

ing  of  timbers,  where  a  bearded  fisher 
man  waited,  and  a  woman.  Sparicio  flung 
up  a  rope. 

The  bearded  man  caught  it  by  the  lan 
tern-light,  and  tethered  the  San  Marco 
to  her  place.  Then  he  asked,  in  a  deep 
voice : 

— "  Has  traido  al  Doctor  ?" 

— "6V,  sir  answered  Sparicio.  .  .  . 
"Y  el  viejo?" 

— "Aye!  pobre /"  responded  Feliu, — 
"  hace  tres  dias  que  esta  muerto? 

Henry  Edwards  was  dead  ! 

He  had  died  very  suddenly,  without  a 
cry  or  a  word,  while  resting  in  his  rock 
ing-chair, — the  very  day  after  Sparicio  had 
sailed.  They  had  made  him  a  grave  in 
the  marsh, — among  the  high  weeds,  not 
far  from  the  ruined  tomb  of  the  Spanish 
fisherman.  But  Sparicio  had  fairly  earned 
his  hundred  dollars. 


1 84  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

V. 

So  there  was  nothing  to  do  at  Viosca's 
Point  except  to  rest.  Feliu  and  all  his 
men  were  going  to  Barataria  in  the  morn 
ing  on  business  ; — the  Doctor  could  ac 
company  them  there,  and  take  the  Grand 
Island  steamer  Monday  for  New  Orleans. 
With  this  intention  Julien  retired, — not 
sorry  for  being  able  to  stretch  himself  at 
full  length  on  the  good  bed  prepared  for 
him,  in  one  of  the  unoccupied  cabins.  But 
he  woke  before  day  with  a  feeling  of  in 
tense  prostration,  a  violent  headache,  and 
such  an  aversion  for  the  mere  idea  of  food 
that  Feliu's  invitation  to  breakfast  at  five 
o'clock  gave  him  an  internal  qualm.  Per 
haps  a  touch  of  malaria.  In  any  case  he 
felt  it  would  be  both  dangerous  and  use 
less  to  return  to  town  unwell ;  and  Feliu, 
observing  his  condition,  himself  advised 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         185 

against  the  journey.  Wednesday  he  would 
have  another  opportunity  to  leave;  and 
in  the  meanwhile  Carmen  would  take  good 
care  of  him.  .  .  .  The  boats  departed,  and 
Julien  slept  again. 

The  sun  was  high  when  he  rose  up  and 
dressed  himself,  feeling  no  better.  He 
would  have  liked  to  walk  about  the  place, 
but  felt  nervously  afraid  of  the  sun.  He 
did  not  remember  having  ever  felt  so 
broken  down  before.  He  pulled  a  rock 
ing-chair  to  the  window,  tried  to  smoke  a 
cigar.  It  commenced  to  make  him  feel 
still  sicker,  and  he  flung  it  away.  It 
seemed  to  him  the  cabin  was  swaying,  as 
the  San  Marco  swayed  when  she  first 
reached  the  deep  water. 

A  light  rustling  sound  approached, — a 
sound  of  quick  feet  treading  the  grass: 
then  a  shadow  slanted  over  the  threshold. 
In  the  glow  of  the  open  doorway  stood  a 


1 86  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

young  girl, — gracile,  tall, — with  singular 
ly  splendid  eyes. — brown  eyes  peeping  at 
him  from  beneath  a  golden  riot  of  loose 
hair. 

— "  M'sieit-le-Docteur,  maman  cTmande 
si  vous  riavez  bisoin  d'queque  chose?" 
.  .  .  She  spoke  the  rude  French  of  the 
fishing  villages,  where  the  language  lives 
chiefly  as  a  baragouin,  mingled  often  with 
words  and  forms  belonging  to  many  other 
tongues.  She  wore  a  loose -falling  dress 
of  some  light  stuff,  steel-gray  in  color ; — 
boys'  shoes  were  on  her  feet. 

He  did  not  reply ; — and  her  large  eyes 
grew  larger  for  wonder  at  the  strange 
fixed  gaze  of  the  physician,  whose  face 
had  visibly  bleached, — blanched  to  corpse- 
pallor.  Silent  seconds  passed ;  and  still 
the  eyes  stared — flamed  as  if  the  life  of 
the  man  had  centralized  and  focussed 
within  them. 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          187 

His  voice  had  risen  to  a  cry  in  his 
throat,  quivered  and  swelled  one  passion 
ate  instant,  and  failed  —  as  in  a  dream 
when  one  strives  to  call,  and  yet  can  only 
moan. .  .  .  She!  Her  unforgotten  eyes, her 
brows,  her  lips ! — the  oval  of  her  face ! — the 
dawn-light  of  her  hair!  .  .  .  Adele's  own 
poise, — her  own  grace! — even  the  very 
turn  of  her  neck, — even  the  bird-tone  of 
her  speech !  .  .  .  Had  the  grave  sent  forth 
a  Shadow  to  haunt  him  ? — could  the  per 
fidious  Sea  have  yielded  up  its  dead  ?  For 
one  terrible  fraction  of  a  minute,  memo 
ries,  doubts,  fears,  mad  fancies,  went  puls 
ing  through  his  brain  with  a  rush  like 
the  rhythmic  throbbing  of  an  electric 
stream ; — then  the  shock  passed,  the  Rea 
son  spoke : — "  Fool ! — count  the  long  years 
since  you  first  saw  her  thus ! — count  the 
years  that  have  gone  since  you  looked 
upon  her  last !  And  Time  has  never 


1 88  Chita  i  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

halted,  silly  heart!  —  neither  has  Death 
stood  still !" 

.  .  .  "P/tfzV-z//"'— the  clear  voice  of  the 
young  girl  asked.  She  thought  he  had 
made  some  response  she  could  not  dis 
tinctly  hear. 

Mastering  himself  an  instant,  as  the 
heart  faltered  back  to  its  duty,  and  the 
color  remounted  to  his  lips,  he  answered 
her  in  French : — 

— "  Pardon  me ! — I  did  not  hear  .  .  . 
you  gave  me  such  a  start !".  .  .  But  even 
then  another  extraordinary  fancy  flashed 
through  his  thought; — and  with  the  tu- 
toiement  of  a  parent  to  a  child,  with  an  ir 
resistible  outburst  of  such  tenderness  as 
almost  frightened  her,  he  cried :  "  Oh  ! 
merciful  God ! — how  like  her !  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  darling,  your  name ;  —  tell  me  who 
you  are  ?"  (Dis-moi  qui  tu  es,  mignonne; 
— dis-moi  ton  nom.) 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         1 89 

.  .  .  Who  was  it  had  asked  her  the  same 
question,  in  another  idiom — ever  so  long 
ago  ?  The  man  with  the  black  eyes  and 
nose  like  an  eagle's  beak, — the  one  who 
gave  her  the  compass.  Not  this  man — 
no! 

She  answered,  with  the  timid  gravity  of 
surprise : — 

— "  Chita  Viosca." 

He  still  watched  her  face,  and  repeated 
the  name  slowly, — reiterated  it  in  a  tone 
of  wonderment : — "  Chita  Viosca  ? — Chita 
Viosca !" 

— "  Cest  a  dire  .  .  ."  she  said,  looking 
down  at  her  feet, — "  Concha — Conchita." 
His  strange  solemnity  made  her  smile, — 
the  smile  of  shyness  that  knows  not  what 
else  to  do.  But  it  was  the  smile  of  dead 
Adele. 

— "  Thanks,  my  child,"  he  exclaimed  of 
a  sudden, — in  a  quick,  hoarse,  changed 


1 90  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

tone.  (He  felt  that  his  emotion  would 
break  loose  in  some  wild  way,  if  he  looked 
upon  her  longer.)  "  I  would  like  to  see 
your  mother  this  evening;  but  I  now 
feel  too  ill  to  go  out.  I  am  going  to  try 
to  rest  a  little." 

— "  Nothing  I  can  bring  you  ?"  She 
asked; — "some  fresh  milk?" 

— "  Nothing  now,  dear :  if  I  need  any 
thing  later,  I  will  tell  your  mother  when 
she  comes." 

— "  Mamma  does  not  understand 
French  very  well." 

— "No  importa,  Conchita ; — le  hablar'e 
en  Espanol? 

— "  Bien,  entoncesT  she  responded,  with 
the  same  exquisite  smile.  "  Adios, 
senor  /" .  .  . 

But  as  she  turned  in  going,  his  piercing 
eye  discerned  a  little  brown  speck  below 
the  pretty  lobe  of  her  right  ear, — just  in 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.          1 9 1 

the  peachy  curve  between  neck  and  cheek. 
.  .  .  His  own  little  Zouzoune  had  a  birth 
mark  like  that ! — he  remembered  the  faint 
pink  trace  left  by  his  fingers  above  and 
below  it  the  day  he  had  slapped  her  for 
overturning  his  ink-bottle. . .  .  "  To  laimin 
moin? — to  batt'e  moinT 
-"Chita!— Chita!" 

She  did  not  hear.  .  .  .  After  all,  what  a 
mistake  he  might  have  made !  Were  not 
Nature's  coincidences  more  wonderful 
than  fiction  ?  Better  to  wait, — to  question 
the  mother  first,  and  thus  make  sure. 

Still — there  were  so  many  coincidences ! 
The  face,  the  smile,  the  eyes,  the  voice, 
the  whole  charm  ; — then  that  mark, — and 
the  fair  hair.  Zouzoune  had  always  re 
sembled  Adele  so  strangely !  That  golden 
hair  was  a  Scandinavian  bequest  to  the 
Florane  family; — the  tall  daughter  of  a 
Norwegian  sea-captain  had  once  become 


1 92  Chita:  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

the  wife  of  a  Florane.  Viosca? — who 
ever  knew  a  Viosca  with  such  hair  ?  Yet 
again,  these  Spanish  emigrants  sometimes 

married  blonde  German  girls Might  be 

a  case  of  atavism,  too.  Who  was  this 
Viosca  ?  If  that  was  his  wife, — the  little 
brown  Carmen, — whence  Chita's  sunny 
hair?... 

And  this  was  part  of  that  same  desolate 
shore  whither  the  Last  Island  dead  had 
been  drifted  by  that  tremendous  surge ! 
On  a  clear  day,  with  a  good  glass,  one 
might  discern  from  here  the  long  blue 
streak  of  that  ghastly  coast.  .  .  .  Some 
where — between  here  and  there.  .  .  .  Mer 
ciful  God !  .  .  . 

. . .  But  again  !  That  bivouac-night  be 
fore  the  fight  at  Chancellorsville,  Larous- 
sel  had  begun  to  tell  him  such  a  singular 
story  . . .  Chance  had  brought  them, — the 
old  enemies, — together ;  made  them  dear 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         193 

friends  in  the  face  of  Death.  How  little 
he  had  comprehended  the  man ! — what  a 
brave,  true,  simple  soul  went  up  that  day 
to  the  Lord  of  Battles !  .  .  .  What  was  it 
— that  story  about  the  little  Creole  girl 
saved  from  Last  Island, — that  story  which 
was  never  finished  ? . . .  Eh  !  what  a  pain  ! 

Evidently  he  had  worked  too  much, 
slept  too  little.  A  decided  case  of  ner 
vous  prostration.  He  must  lie  down,  and 
try  to  sleep.  These  pains  in  the  head 
and  back  were  becoming  unbearable. 
Nothing  but  rest  could  avail  him  now. 

He  stretched  himself  under  the  mos 
quito  curtain.  It  was  very  still,  breath 
less,  hot !  The  venomous  insects  were 
thick; — they  filled  the  room  with  a  con 
tinuous  ebullient  sound,  as  if  invisible 
kettles  were  boiling  overhead.  A  sign 
of  storm.  .  .  .  Still,  it  was  strange! — he 
could  not  perspire.  .  .  . 


1 94  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Then  it  seemed  to  him  that  Laroussel 
was  bending  over  him — Laroussel  in  his 
cavalry  uniform.  "  Bon  jour,  camarade! 
— nous  allons  avoir  un  bien  mauvais 
temps,  mon  pauvre  Julien"  How!  bad 
weather? — "  Comment  un  mauvais  temps?" 
. . .  He  looked  in  Laroussel's  face.  There 
was  something  so  singular  in  his  smile. 
Ah  !  yes, — he  remembered  now :  it  was 
the  wound  !  . . .  "  Un  vilain  temps  /"  whis 
pered  Laroussel.  Then  he  was  gone. . . . 
Whither? 

—"CkeriT.  .. 

The  whisper  roused  him  with  a  fearful 
start.  .  .  .  Adele's  whisper!  So  she  was 
wont  to  rouse  him  sometimes  in  the  old 
sweet  nights, — to  crave  some  little  atten 
tion  for  ailing  Eulalie, — to  make  some 
little  confidence  she  had  forgotten  to  ut 
ter  during  the  happy  evening. . .  .  No,  no! 
It  was  only  the  trees.  The  sky  was  cloud- 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         195 

ing  over.  The  wind  was  rising.  .  . .  How 
his  heart  beat !  how  his  temples  pulsed ! 
Why,  this  was  fever!  Such  pains  in  the 
back  and  head ! 

Still  his  skin  was  dry, — dry  as  parch 
ment, — burning.  He  rose  up ;  and  a 
bursting  weight  of  pain  at  the  base  of  the 
skull  made  him  reel  like  a  drunken  man. 
He  staggered  to  the  little  mirror  nailed 
upon  the  wall,  and  looked.  How  his  eyes 
glowed; — and  there  was  blood  in  his 
mouth!  He  felt  his  pulse — spasmodic, 
terribly  rapid.  Could  it  possibly —  ?  .  .  . 
No:  this  must  be  some  pernicious  mala 
rial  fever!  The  Creole  does  not  easily 
fall  a  prey  to  the  great  tropical  malady, — 
unless  after  a  long  absence  in  other  cli 
mates.  True!  he  had  been  four  years  in 
the  army!  But  this  was  1867.  ...  He 
hesitated  a  moment;  then, — opening  his 
medicine-chest,  he  measured  out  and  swal 
lowed  thirty  grains  of  quinine. 


1 96  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Then  he  lay  down  again.  His  head 
pained  more  and  more; — it  seemed  as  if 
the  cervical  vertebrae  were  filled  with 
fluid  iron.  And  still  his  skin  remained 
dry  as  if  tanned.  Then  the  anguish  grew 
so  intense  as  to  force  a  groan  with  almost 
every  aspiration.  .  .  .  Nausea, — and  the 
stinging  bitterness  of  quinine  rising  in 
his  throat ; — dizziness,  and  a  brutal  wrench 
ing  within  his  stomach.  Everything  be 
gan  to  look  pink; — the  light  was  rose- 
colored.  It  darkened  more, — kindled 
with  deepening  tint.  Something  kept 
sparkling  and  spinning  before  his  sight, 
like  a  firework.  .  .  .  Then  a  burst  of 
blood  mixed  with  chemical  bitterness 
filled  his  mouth ;  the  light  became  scar 
let  as  claret.  .  .  .  This — this  was  .  .  .  not 
malaria. . 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         197 

VI. 

. .  .  Carmen  knew  what  it  was ;  but  the 
brave  little  woman  was  not  afraid  of  it. 
Many  a  time  before  she  had  met  it  face 
to  face,  in  Havanese  summers ;  she  knew 
how  to  wrestle  with  it; — she  had  torn 
Feliu's  life  away  from  its  yellow  clutch, 
after  one  of  those  long  struggles  that 
strain  even  the  strength  of  love.  Now 
she  feared  mostly  for  Chita.  She  had 
ordered  the  girl  under  no  circumstances 
to  approach  the  cabin. 

Julien  felt  that  blankets  had  been 
heaped  upon  him, — that  some  gentle  hand 
was  bathing  his  scorching  face  with  vine 
gar  and  water.  Vaguely  also  there  came 
to  him  the  idea  that  it  was  night.  He 
saw  the  shadow-shape  of  a  woman  mov 
ing  against  the  red  light  upon  the  wall; 
—he  saw  there  was  a  lamp  burning. 


1 98  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

Then  the  delirium  seized  him :  he 
moaned,  sobbed,  cried  like  a  child, — talked 
wildly  at  intervals  in  French,  in  English, 
in  Spanish. 

— "Mentira! — you  could  not  be  her 
mother.  .  .  .  Still,  if  you  were —  And  she 
must  not  come  in  here,— -jamas!  .  .  .  Car 
men,  did  you  know  Adele,— Adele  Flo- 
rane  ?  So  like  her, — so  like, — God  only 
knows  how  like !  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  think  I 
know ; — but  I  do  not — do  not  know  justly, 
fully — how  like !  .  .  .  Si/  si! — es  el  vbmi- 
to! — -yo  lo  conozco,  Carmen  /  ...  She  must 
not  die  twice.  ...  I  died  twice.  ...  I  am 
going  to  die  again.  She  only  once.  Till 
the  heavens  be  no  more  she  will  not  rise. 
.  .  .  Moi,  au  contraire,  il  faut  que  je  me 
leve  toujours!  They  need  me  so  much; 
— the  slate  is  always  full;  the  bell  will 
never  stop.  They  will  ring  that  bell  for 
me  when  I  am  dead. ,  .  So  will  I  rise 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         1  99 

again  !  —  resurgam  /  .  .  .  How  could  I  save 
him?  —  could  not  save  myself.  It  was  a 
bad  case,  —  at  seventy  years  !  .  .  .  There  ! 


He  saw  Laroussel  again,  —  reaching  out 
a  hand  to  him  through  a  whirl  of  red 
smoke.  He  tried  to  grasp  it,  and  could 
not.  ..."  N'importe,  mon  ami"  said  La 
roussel,  —  "  tu  vas  la  voir  bientbtr  Who 
was  he  to  see  soon  ?  —  "  qui  done,  Larous 
sel?"  But  Laroussel  did  not  answer. 
Through  the  red  mist  he  seemed  to  smile  ; 
—  then  passed. 

For  some  hours  Carmen  had  trusted 
she  could  save  her  patient,  —  desperate  as 
the  case  appeared  to  be.  His  was  one  of 
those  rapid  and  violent  attacks,  such  as 
often  despatch  their  victims  in  a  single 
day.  In  the  Cuban  hospitals  she  had  seen 
many  and  many  terrible  examples  :  strong 


2OO  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

young  men, — soldiers  fresh  from  Spain, — 
carried  panting  to  the  fever  wards  at  sun 
rise  ;  carried  to  the  cemeteries  at  sunset. 
Even  troopers  riddled  with  revolutionary 
bullets  had  lingered  longer.  .  .  .  Still,  she 
had  believed  she  might  save  Julien's  life: 
the  burning  forehead  once  began  to  bead, 
the  burning  hands  grew  moist. 

But  now  the  wind  was  moaning ; — the 
air  had  become  lighter,  thinner,  cooler. 
A  storm  was  gathering  in  the  east;  and 
to  the  fever-stricken  man  the  change 
meant  death.  .  .  .  Impossible  to  bring  the 
priest  of  the  Caminada  now ;  and  there 
was  no  other  within  a  day's  sail.  She 
colild  only  pray ;  she  had  lost  all  hope  in 
her  own  power  to  save. 

Still  the  sick  man  raved  ;  but  he  talked 
to  himself  at  longer  intervals,  and  with 
longer  pauses  between  his  words ; — his 
voice  was  growing  more  feeble,  his  speech 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         201 

more  incoherent.     His  thought  vacillated 
and  distorted,  like  flame  in  a  wind. 

Weirdly  the  past  became  confounded 
with  the  present ;  impressions  of  sight 
and  of  sound  interlinked  in  fastastic  affin 
ity, —  the  face  of  Chita  Viosca,  the  mur 
mur  of  the  rising  storm.  Then  flickers 
of  spectral  lightning  passed  through  his 
eyes,  through  his  brain,  with  every  throb 
of  the  burning  arteries ;  then  utter  dark 
ness  came, — a  darkness  that  surged  and 
moaned,  as  the  circumfluence  of  a  shad 
owed  sea.  And  through  and  over  the 
moaning  pealed  one  multitudinous  hu 
man  cry,  one  hideous  interblending  of 
shoutings  and  shriekings.  ...  A  wom 
an's  hand  was  locked  in  his  own.  .  .  . 
"  Tighter,"  he  muttered,  "  tighter  still,  dar 
ling  !  hold  as  long  as  you  can  !"  It  was 
the  tenth  night  of  August,  eighteen  hun 
dred  and  fifty-six.  .  .  . 


202  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

-"  Chili!".  .  . 

Again  the  mysterious  whisper  startled 
him  to  consciousness,  —  the  dim  knowl 
edge  of  a  room  filled  with  ruby-colored 
light,  —  and  the  sharp  odor  of  vinegar. 
The  house  swung  round  slowly;  —  the 
crimson  flame  of  the  lamp  lengthened 
and  broadened  by  turns; — then  every 
thing  turned  dizzily  fast, — whirled  as  if 
spinning  in  a  vortex.  .  .  .  Nausea  unutter 
able  ;  and  a  frightful  anguish  as  of  teeth 
devouring  him  within, — tearing  more  and 
more  furiously  at  his  breast.  Then  one 
atrocious  wrenching,  rending,  burning, — 
and  the  gush  of  blood  burst  from  lips  and 
nostrils  in  a  smothering  deluge.  Again 
the  vision  of  lightnings,  the  swaying,  and 
the  darkness  of  long  ago.  "  Quick  ! — 
quick !— hold  fast  to  the  table,  Adele  !— 
never  let  go !".  . . 

. .  .  Up, — up, — up  ! — what !  higher  yet  ? 
Up  to  the  red  sky !  Red — black-red 


The  Shadow  of  the  Tide.         203 

heated  iron  when  its  vermilion  dies.  So, 
too,  the  frightful  flood  !  And  noiseless. 
Noiseless  because  heavy,  clammy, — thick, 
warm,  sickening  .  .  .  blood  ?  Well  might 
the  land  quake  for  the  weight  of  such  a 
tide ! .  .  .  Why  did  Adele  speak  Spanish  ? 
Who  prayed  for  him  ?  .  .  . 

— "Alma  de  Cristo  santisima  santi- 
ficame  ! 

"  Sangre  de  Cristo,  embriagame  / 

"  O  buen  Jesus,  oye  me  /".  .  . 

Out  of  the  darkness  into — such  a  light ! 
An  azure  haze !  Ah ! — the  delicious  frost ! 

All  the  streets  were  filled  with 

the  sweet  blue  mist Voiceless 

the  City  and  white ; — crooked  and  weed- 
grown  its  narrow  ways  ! Old 

streets  of  tombs,  these Eh  !  how 

odd  a  custom! — a  Night-bell  at  every 
door.  Yes,  of  course  !— a  nightk&\  \ — the 
Dead  are  Physicians  of  Souls :  they  may 


204  Chita :  A  Memory  of  Last  Island. 

be  summoned  only  by  night, — called  up 
from  the  darkness  and  silence.  .  .  .  Yet 
she?  —  might  he  not  dare  to  ring  for 

her  even  by  day  ? Strange  he 

had  deemed  it  day ! — why,  it  was  black, 
starless.  .  .  .  And  it  was  growing  queer- 

ly  cold How  should  he  ever 

find  her  now  ?  It  was  so  black  ...  so 
cold!  ... 

— "CKeri  !" 

All  the  dwelling  quivered  with  the 
mighty  whisper. 

Outside,  the  great  oaks  were  trembling 
to  their  roots ; — all  the  shore  shook  and 
blanched  before  the  calling  of  the  sea. 

And  Carmen,  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the 
dead,  cried  out,  alone  in  the  night : — 

— "  O  Jesus  misericordioso  ! — tened  com- 
pasion  de  el!" 

THE    END. 


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.« 


REC'D  LD 


MAY  3  0  1962 


JUN  11 194! 


REG.  C!R.JUN 


Z7 


o  n 


987 


LD  21-95W-7/37 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


